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THE TALES OF CHEKHOV 


ie BLS OP 
AND OTHER STORIES 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
NEW YORK + BOSTON - CHICAGO - DALLAS 
ATLANTA * SAN FRANCISCO 


MACMILLAN & CO., Limitep 
LONDON + BOMBAY - CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 


THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Lp. 
TORONTO 








THE BISHOP 


AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 


ANTON CHEKHOV 


FROM THE RUSSIAN BY 


CONSTANCE GARNETT 


WILLEY BOOK COMPANY 
NEW YORK 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


CopYRIGHT, 1919, 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 


Set up and electrotyped. Published, September, 1919 


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FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY 
NEW YORK CITY 





THE BisHop . 


THE LETTER . 


Easter Eve 


| A NIGHTMARE . 


THe Murper 


UPROOTED . 


Tue STEPPE . 





CONTENTS 


fe} 


PAGE 
sho fd 
Cle Se 
F 49 
67 
: 89 
135 


[1810 





THE BISHOP 





THE TALES OF CHEKHOV 


ah BISHOP 
I 


THE evening service was being celebrated on the 
eve of Palm Sunday in the Old Petrovsky Convent. 
When they began distributing the palm it was close 
upon ten o’clock, the candles were burning dimly, the 
wicks wanted snuffing; it was all in a sort of mist. 
In the twilight of the church the crowd seemed heay- 
ing like the sea, and to Bishop Pyotr, who had been 
unwell for the last three days, it seemed that all the 
faces — old and young, men’s and women’s — were 
alike, that everyone who came up for the palm had 
the same expression in his eyes. In the mist he could 
not see the doors; the crowd kept moving and looked 
as though there were no end to it. The female 
choir was singing, a nun was reading the prayers for 
the day. 

How stifling, how hot it was! How long the 
service went on! Bishop Pyotr was tired. His 
breathing was laboured and rapid, his throat was 
parched, his shoulders ached with weariness, his 
legs were trembling. And it disturbed him unpleas- 
antly when a religious maniac uttered occasional 
shrieks in the gallery. And then all of a sudden, as 

3 


4 The Tales of Chekhov 


though in a dream or delirium, it seemed to the 
bishop as though his own mother Marya Timo- 
fyevna, whom he had not seen for nine years, or 
some old woman just like his mother, came up to him 
out of the crowd, and, after taking a palm branch 
from him, walked away looking at him all the while 
good-humouredly with a kind, joyful smile until she 
was lost in the crowd. And for some reason tears 
flowed down his face. There was peace in his heart, 
everything was well, yet he kept gazing fixedly to- 
wards the left choir, where the prayers were being 
read, where in the dusk of evening you could not 
recognize anyone, and— wept. Tears glistened on 
his face and on his beard. Here someone close at 
hand was weeping, then someone else farther away, 
then others and still others, and little by little the 
church was filled with soft weeping. And a little 
later, within five minutes, the nuns’ choir was singing; 
no one was weeping and everything was as before. 
Soon the service was over. When the bishop got 
into his carriage to drive home, the gay, melodious 
chime of the heavy, costly bells was filling the whole 
garden inthe moonlight. The white walls, the white 
crosses on the tombs, the white birch-trees and black 
shadows, and the far-away moon in the sky exactly 
over the convent, seemed now living their own life, 
apart and incomprehensible, yet very near to man. 
It was the beginning of April, and after the warm 
spring day it turned cool; there was a faint touch of 
frost, and the breath of spring could be felt in the 
soft, chilly air. The road from the convent to the 
town was sandy, the horses had to go at a walking 
pace, and on both sides of the carriage in the bril- 


The Bishop 5 


liant, peaceful moonlight there were people trudging 
along home from church through the sand. And all 
was silent, sunk in thought; everything around 
seemed kindly, youthful, akin, everything — trees 
and sky and even the moon, and one longed to think 
that so it would be always. 

At last the carriage drove into the town and 
rumbled along the principal street. “The shops were 
already shut, but at Erakin’s, the millionaire shop- 
keeper’s, they were trying the new electric lights, 
which flickered brightly, and a crowd of people were 
gathered round. Then came wide, dark, deserted 
streets, one after another; then the highroad, the 
open country, the fragrance of pines. And suddenly 
there rose up before the bishop’s eyes a white tur- 
reted wall, and behind it a tall belfry in the full 
moonlight, and beside it five shining, golden cupolas: 
this was the Pankratievsky Monastery, in which 
Bishop Pyotr lived. And here, too, high above the 
monastery, was the silent, dreamy moon. The car- 
riage drove in at the gate, crunching over the sand; 
here and there in the moonlight there were glimpses 
of dark monastic figures, and there was the sound of 
footsteps on the flag-stones. . . . 

“You know, your holiness, your mamma arrived 
while you were away,” the lay brother informed the 
bishop as he went into his cell. 

“My mother? When did she come? ”’ 

“Before the evening service. She asked first 
where you were and then she went to the convent.” 

“Then it was her I saw in the church, just now! 
on, Jord !.”’ 

And the bishop,laughed with joy. 


6 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘‘ She bade me tell your holiness,” the lay brother 
went on, ‘‘ that she would come to-morrow. She had 
a little girl with her —her grandchild, I suppose. 
They are staying at Ovsyannikov’s inn.” 

‘What time is it now?” 

‘* A little after eleven.” 

“Oh, how vexing! ”’ 

The bishop sat for a little while in the parlour, hes- 
itating, and as it were refusing to believe it was so 
late. His arms and legs were stiff, his head ached. 
He was hot and uncomfortable. After resting a 
little he went into his bedroom, and there, too, he 
sat a little, still thinking of his mother; he could 
hear the lay brother going away, and Father Sisoy 
coughing the other side of the wall. The monastery 
clock struck a quarter. 

The bishop changed his clothes and began read- 
ing the prayers before sleep. He read attentively 
those old, long familiar prayers, and at the same 
time thought about his mother. She had nine chil- 
dren and about forty grandchildren. At one time, 
she had lived with her husband, the deacon, in a poor 
village; she had lived there a very long time from 
the age of seventeen to sixty. The bishop remem- 
bered her from early childhood, almost from the age 
of three, and — how he had loved her! Sweet, pre- 
cious childhood, always fondly remembered! Why 
did it, that long-past time that could never return, 
why did it seem brighter, fuller, and more festive 
than it had really been? When in his childhood or 
youth he had been ill, how tender and sympathetic 
nis mother had been! And now his prayers mingled 
with the memories, which gleamed more and more 


The Bishop 7 


brightly like a flame, and the prayers did not hinder 
his thinking of his mother. 

When he had finished his prayers he undressed 
and lay down, and at once, as soon as it was dark, 
there rose before his mind his dead father, his 
mother, his native village Lesopolye . . . the creak 
of wheels, the bleat of sheep, the church bells on 
bright summer mornings, the gypsies under the win- 
dow — oh, how sweet to think of it! He remem- 
bered the priest of Lesopolye, Father Simeon — 
mild, gentle, kindly; he was a lean little man, while 
his son, a divinity student, was a huge fellow and 
talked in a roaring bass voice. ‘The priest’s son had 
flown into a rage with the cook and abused her: 
“Ah, you Jehud’s ass!” and Father Simeon over- 
hearing it, said not a word, and was only ashamed 
because he could not remember where such an ass 
was mentioned in the Bible. After him the priest at 
Lesopolye had been Father Demyan, who used to 
drink heavily, and at times drank till he saw green 
snakes, and was even nicknamed Demyan Snakeseer. 
The schoolmaster at Lesopolye was Matvey Niko- 
laitch, who had been a divinity student, a kind and 
intelligent man, but he, too, was a drunkard; he never 
beat the schoolchildren, but for some reason he al- 
ways had hanging on his wall a bunch of birch-twigs, 
and below it an utterly meaningless inscription in 
Latin: ‘“ Betula kinderbalsamica secuta.”” He had 
a shaggy black dog whom he called Syntax. 

And his holiness laughed. Six miles from Leso- 
polye was the village Obnino with a wonder-working 
ikon. In the summer they used to carry the ikon in 
procession about the neighbouring villages and ring 


8 The Tales of Chekhov 


the bells the whole day long; first in one village and 
then in another, and it used to seem to the bishop 
then that joy was quivering in the air, and he (in 
those days his name was Pavlusha) used to follow 
the ikon, bareheaded and barefoot, with naive faith, 
with a naive smile, infinitely happy. In Obnino, he 
remembered now, there were always a lot of people, 
and the priest there, Father Alexey, to save time 
during mass, used to make his deaf nephew Ilarion 
read the names of those for whose health or whose 
souls’ peace prayers were asked. [Ilarion used to 
read them, now and then getting a five or ten kopeck 
piece for the service, and only when he was grey and 
bald, when life was nearly over, he suddenly saw 
written on one of the pieces of paper: ‘‘ What a 
fool you are, Ilarion.”’ Up to fifteen at least Pay- 
lusha was undeveloped and idle at his lessons, so 
much so that they thought of taking him away from 
the clerical school and putting him into a shop; one 
day, going to the post at Obnino for letters, he had 
stared a long time at the post-office clerks and asked: 
‘* Allow me to ask, how do you get your salary, every 
month or every day?” 

His holiness crossed himself and turned over on 
the other side, trying to stop thinking and go to 
sleep. 

“My mother has come,” he remembered and 
laughed. 

The moon peeped in at the window, the floor was 
lighted up, and there were shadows on it. A cricket 
was chirping. Through the wall Father Sisoy was 
snoring in the next room, and his aged snore had a 
sound that suggested loneliness, forlornness, even 


The Bishop 9 


vagrancy. Sisoy had once been housekeeper to the 
bishop of the diocese, and was called now “ the 
former Father Housekeeper ’’; he was seventy years 
old, he lived in a monastery twelve miles from the 
town and stayed sometimes in the town, too. He 
had come to the Pankratievsky Monastery three days 
before, and the bishop had kept him that he might 
talk to him at his leisure about matters of business, 
about the arrangements here. . . . 

At half-past one they began ringing for matins. 
Father Sisoy could be heard coughing, muttering 
something in a discontented voice, then he got up 
and walked barefoot about the rooms. 

“Father Sisoy,’’ the bishop called. 

Sisoy went back to his room and a little later made 
his appearance in his boots, with a candle; he had on 
his cassock over his underclothes and on his head was 
an old faded skull-cap. 

‘““T can’t sleep,” said the bishop, sitting up. “I 
must be unwell. And what it is I don’t know. 
Fever!” 

‘“ You must have caught cold, your holiness. You 
must be rubbed with tallow.” Sisoy stood a little 
and yawned. ‘“O Lord, forgive me, a sinner.” 

“They had the electric lights on at Erakin’s to- 
day,’ he said; ‘‘I don’t like it!” 

Father Sisoy was old, lean, bent, always dissatis- 
fied with something, and his eyes were angry-looking 
and prominent as a crab’s. 

‘I don’t like it,” he said, going away. ‘I don’t 
like it. Bother it!” 


10 The Tales of Chekhov 


II 


Next day, Palm Sunday, the bishop took the serv- 
ice in the cathedral in the town, then he visited the 
bishop of the diocese, then visited a very sick old 
lady, the widow of a general, and at last drove home. 
Between one and two o’clock he had welcome visitors 
dining with him — his mother and his niece Katya, a 
child of eight years old. All dinner-time the spring 
sunshine was streaming in at the windows, throwing 
bright light on the white tablecloth and on Katya’s 
red hair. Through the double windows they could 
hear the noise of the rooks and the notes of the star- 
lings in the garden. 

‘It is nine years since we have met,” said the old 
lady. ‘‘ And when J looked at you in the monastery 
yesterday, good Lord! you’ve not changed a bit, ex- 
cept maybe you are thinner and your beard 1s a little 
longer. Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven! Yester- 
day at the evening service no one could help crying. 
I, too, as I looked at you, suddenly began crying, 
though I couldn’t say why. His Holy Will!” 

And in spite of the affectionate tone in which she 
said this, he could see she was constrained as though 
she were uncertain whether to address him formally 
or familiarly, to laugh or not, and that she felt her- 
self more a deacon’s widow than his mother. And 
Katya gazed without blinking at her uncle, his holi- 
ness, as though trying to discover what sort of a 
person he was. Her hair sprang up from under 
the comb and the velvet ribbon and stood out like a 
halo: she had a turned-up nose and sly eyes. The 


The Bishop iil 


child had broken a glass before sitting down to din- 
ner, and now her grandmother, as she talked, moved 
away from Katya first a wineglass and then a tum- 
bler. The bishop listened to his mother and remem- 
bered how many, many years ago she used to take 
him and his brothers and sisters to relations whom 
she considered rich; in those days she was taken up 
with the care of her children, now with her grand- 
children, and she had brought Katya... . 

‘Your sister, Varenka, has four children,” she 
told him; ‘“‘ Katya, here, is the eldest. And your 
brother-in-law Father Ivan fell sick, God knows of 
what, and died three days before the Assumption; 
and my poor Varenka is left a beggar.” 

“ And how is Nikanor getting on?” the bishop 
asked about his eldest brother. 

‘He is all right, thank God. Though he has 
nothing much, yet he can live. Only there is one 
thing: his son, my grandson Nikolasha, did not want 
to go into the Church; he has gone to the university 
to be a doctor. He thinks it is better; but who 
knows! His Holy Will!” 

‘“Nikolasha cuts up dead people,” said Katya, 
spilling water over her knees. 

“Sit still, child,’ her grandmother observed 
calmly, and took the glass out of her hand. ‘‘ Say 
a prayer, and go on eating.” 

‘“ How long it is since we have seen each other! ” 
said the bishop, and he tenderly stroked his mother’s 
hand and shoulder; ‘‘ and I missed you abroad, 
mother, I missed you dreadfully.” 

“Thank you.” 

‘IT used to sit in the evenings at the open window, 


12 The Tales of Chekhov 


lonely and alone; often there was music playing, and 
all at once I used to be overcome with homesickness 
and felt as though I would give everything only to be 
at home and see you.” 

His mother smiled, beamed, but at once she made 
a grave face and said: 

‘Thank, yout’ 

His mood suddenly changed. He looked at his 
mother and could not understand how she had come 
by that respectfulness, that timid expression of face: 
what was it for? And he did not recognize her. 
He felt sad and vexed. And then his head ached 
just as it had the day before; his legs felt fearfully 
tired, and the fish seemed to him stale and tasteless; 
he felt thirsty all the time. . . . 

After dinner two rich ladies, landowners, arrived 
and sat for an hour and a half in silence with rigid 
countenances; the archimandrite, a silent, rather deaf 
man, came to see him about business. ‘Then they 
began ringing for vespers; the sun was setting be- 
hind the wood and the day was over. When he re- 
turned from church, he hurriedly said his prayers, 
got into bed, and wrapped himself up as warm as 
possible. 

It was disagreeable to remember the fish he had 
eaten at dinner. The moonlight worried him, and 
then he heard talking. In an adjoining room, prob- 
ably in the parlour, Father Sisoy was talking politics: 

‘“There’s war among the Japanese now. They 
are fighting. The Japanese, my good soul, are the 
same as the Montenegrins; they are the same race. 
They were under the Turkish yoke together.” 


The Bishop 13 
And then he heard the voice of Marya Timo- 


fyevna: 

‘So, having said our prayers and drunk tea, we 
went, you know, to Father Yegor at Novokatnoye, 
2 eee 
And she kept on saying, “having had tea” or 
“having drunk tea,” and it seemed as though the 
only thing she had done in her life was to drink tea. 

The bishop slowly, languidly, recalled the sem- 
inary, the academy. For three years he had been 
Greek teacher in the seminary: by that time he could 
not read without spectacles. Then he had become a 
monk; he had been made a school inspector. Then 
he had defended his thesis for his degree. When 
he was thirty-two he had been made rector of the 
seminary, and consecrated archimandrite: and then 
his life had been so easy, so pleasant; it seemed so 
long, so long, no end was in sight. Then he had be- 
gun to be ill, had grown very thin and almost blind, 
and by the advice of the doctors had to give up every- 
thing and go abroad. 

‘“ And what then? ”’ asked Sisoy in the next room. 

“Then we. drank tea...” answered Marya 
Timofyevna. 

“Good gracious, you’ve got a green beard,” said 
Katya suddenly in surprise, and she laughed. 

The bishop remembered that the grey-headed Fa- 
ther Sisoy’s beard really had a shade of green in it, 
and he laughed. 

“God have mercy upon us, what we have to put 
up with with this girl!’ said Sisoy, aloud, getting 
angry. “Spoilt child! Sit quiet!” 


14 The Tales of Chekhov 


The bishop remembered the perfectly new white 
church in which he had conducted the services while 
living abroad, he remembered the sound of the warm 
sea. In his flat he had five lofty light rooms; in his 
study he had a new writing-table, lots of books. He 
had read a great deal and often written. And he 
remembered how he had pined for his native land, 
how a blind beggar woman had played the guitar un- 
der his window every day and sung of love, and how, 
as he listened, he had always for some reason thought 
of the past. But eight years had passed and he had © 
been called back to Russia, and now he was a suffra- 
gan bishop, and all the past had retreated far away 
into the mist as though it were a dream. 

Father Sisoy came into the bedroom with a candle. 

‘““T say!’ he said, wondering, ‘“‘ are you asleep al- 
ready, your holiness?” 

“ What is it?” 

“Why, it’s still early, ten o’clock or less. I 
bought a candle to-day; I wanted to rub you with 
tallow.” 

“I am in a fever . . .”” said the bishop, and he 
sat up. “I really ought to have something. My 
head is bad. 

Sisoy Pookion the bishop’s shirt and began rub- 
bing his chest and back with tallow. 

» That's the way’... that’s the’ way 0-1 he 
said. (“Lord Jesus: Christ ... .that’sttheswaysuae 
walked to the town to-day; I was at what’s-his-name’s 
— the chief priest Sidonsky’s. . . . I had tea with 
him. I don’t like him. Lord Jesus Christ... . 
That’s the way. I don’t like him.” 


The Bishop 15 


III 


The bishop of the diocese, a very fat old man, was 
ill with rheumatism or gout, and had been in bed for 
overamonth. Bishop Pyotr went to see him almost 
every day, and saw all who came to ask his help. 
And now that he was unwell he was struck by the 
emptiness, the triviality of everything which they 
asked and for which they wept; he was vexed at their 
ignorance, their timidity; and all this useless, petty 
business oppressed him by the mass of it, and it 
seemed to him that now he understood the diocesan 
bishop, who had once in his young days written on 
‘The Doctrines of the Freedom of the Will,” and 
now seemed to be all lost in trivialities, to have for- 
gotten everything, and to have no thoughts of re- 
ligion. The bishop must have lost touch with Rus- 
sian life while he was abroad; he did not find it easy; 
the peasants seemed to him coarse, the women who 
sought his help dull and stupid, the seminarists and 
their teachers uncultivated and at times savage. 
And the documents coming in and going out were 
reckoned by tens of thousands; and what documents 
they were! ‘The higher clergy in the whole diocese 
gave the priests, young and old, and even their wives 
and children, marks for their behaviour —a five, a 
four, and sometimes even a three; and about this he 
had to talk and to read and write serious reports. 
And there was positively not one minute to spare; 
his soul was troubled all day long, and the bishop 
was only at peace when he was in church. 


16 The Tales of Chekhov 


He could not get used, either, to the awe which, 
through no wish of his own, he inspired in people in 
spite of his quiet, modest disposition. All the peo- 
ple in the province seemed to him little, scared, and 
guilty when he looked at them. Everyone was timid 
in his presence, even the old chief priests; everyone 
‘flopped ” at his feet, and not long previously an old 
lady, a village priest’s wife who had come to consult 
him, was so overcome by awe that she could not utter 
a single word, and went empty away. And he, who 
could never in his sermons bring himself to speak 
ill of people, never reproached anyone because he 
was so sorry for them, was moved to fury with the 
people who came to consult him, lost his temper and 
flung their petitions on the floor. The whole time 
he had been here, not one person had spoken to him 
genuinely, simply, as to a human being; even his old 
mother seemed now not the same! And why, he 
wondered, did she chatter away to Sisoy and laugh 
so much; while with him, her son, she was grave and 
usually silent and constrained, which did not suit 
her at all. The only person who behaved freely with 
him and said what he meant was old Sisoy, who had 
spent his whole life in the presence of bishops and 
had outlived eleven of them. And so the bishop 
was at ease with him, although, of course, he was a 
tedious and nonsensical man. 

After the service on Tuesday, his holiness Pyotr 
was in the diocesan bishop’s house receiving petitions 
there; he got excited and angry, and then drove 
home. He was as unwell as before; he longed to be 
in bed, but he had hardly reached home when he was 
informed that a young merchant called Erakin, who 


aihekrctay 17 


subscribed liberally to charities, had come to see him 
about a very important matter. ‘The bishop had to 
see him. Erakin stayed about an hour, talked very 
loud, almost shouted, and it was difficult to under- 
stand what he said. 

““God grant it may,’ he said as he went away. 
‘“‘ Most essential! According to circumstances, your 
holiness! I trust it may!” . 

After him came the Mother Superior from a dis- 
tant convent. And when she had gone they began 
ringing for vespers. He had to go to church. 

In the evening the monks sang harmoniously, with 
inspiration. A young priest with a black beard con- 
ducted the service; and the bishop, hearing of the 
Bridegroom who comes at midnight and of the Heav- 
enly Mansion adorned for the festival, felt no re- 
pentance for his sins, no tribulation, but peace at 
heart and tranquillity. And he was carried back in 
thought to the distant past, to his childhood and 
youth, when, too, they used to sing of the Bride- 
groom and of the Heavenly Mansion; and now that 
past rose up before him — living, fair, and joyful as 
in all likelihood it never had been. And perhaps in 
the other world, in the life to come, we shall think of 
the distant past, of our life here, with the same feel- 
ing. Who knows? ‘The bishop was sitting near 
the altar. It was dark; tears flowed down his face. 
He thought that here he had attained everything a 
man in his position could attain; he had faith and yet 
everything was not clear, something was lacking still. 
He did not want to die; and he still felt that he had 
missed what was most important, something of which 
he had dimly dreamed in the past; and he was trou- 


18 The Tales of Chekhov 


bled by the same hopes for the future as he had felt 
in childhood, at the academy and abroad. 

‘* How well they sing to-day!” he thought, listen- 
ing to the singing. ‘‘ How nice it is!” 


IV 


On Thursday he celebrated mass in the cathedral; 
it was the Washing of Feet. When the service was 
over and the people were going home, it was sunny, 
warm; the water gurgled in the gutters, and the un- 
ceasing trilling of the larks, tender, telling of peace, 
rose from the fields outside the town. The trees 
were already awakening and smiling a welcome, while 
above them the infinite, fathomless blue sky stretched 
into the distance, God knows whither. 

On reaching home his holiness drank some tea, 
then changed his clothes, lay down on his bed, and 
told the lay brother to close the shutters on the win- 
dows. The bedroom was darkened. But what 
weariness, what pain in his legs and his back, a chill 
heavy pain, what a noise in his ears! He had not 
slept for a long time — for a very long time, as it 
seemed to him now, and some trifling detail which 
haunted his brain as soon as his eyes were closed 
prevented him from sleeping. As on the day before, 
sounds reached him from the adjoining rooms 
through the walls, voices, the jingle of glasses and 
teaspoons. . . . Marya Timofyevna was gaily tell- 
ing Father Sisoy some story with quaint turns of 
speech, while the latter answered in a grumpy, ill- 
humoured voice: ‘Bother them! Not likely! 


The Bishop 19 


What next!” And the bishop again felt vexed and 
then hurt that with other people his old mother be- 
haved in a simple, ordinary way, while with him; her 
son, she was shy, spoke little, and did not say what 
she meant, and even, as he fancied, had during all 
those three days kept trying in his presence to find an 
excuse for standing up, because she was embarrassed 
at sitting before him. And his father? He, too, 
probably, if he had been living, would not have been 
able to utter a word in the bishop’s presence. . . . 

Something fell down on the floor in the adjoining 
room and was broken; Katya must have dropped a 
cup or a saucer, for Father Sisoy suddenly spat and 
said angrily: 

‘‘ What a regular nuisance the childis! Lord for- 
give my transgressions! One can’t provide enough 
fon her.’ | 

Then all was quiet, the only sounds came from 
outside. And when the bishop opened his eyes he 
saw Katya in his room, standing motionless, staring 
athim. Her red hair, as usual, stood up from under 
the comb like a halo. 

mils: that) yoummatyard whe,askedie,)' Whois. vit 
downstairs who keeps opening and shutting a door?” 

‘“T don’t hear it,” answered Katya; and she lis- 
tened. 

“There, someone has just passed by.”’ 

‘“‘ But that was a noise in your stomach, uncle.” 

He laughed and stroked her on the head. 

‘“So you say Cousin Nikolasha cuts up dead peo- 
ple?” he asked after a pause. 

“Yes, he is studying.” 

* And is he kind? ” 


20 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘““Oh, yes, he’s kind. But he drinks vodka aw- 
fully.” 

‘* And what was it your father died of?” 

‘Papa was weak and very, very thin, and all at 
once his throat was bad. I was ill then, too, and 
brother Fedya; we all had bad throats. Papa died, 
uncle, and we got well.” 

Her chin began quivering, and tears gleamed in 
her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. 

‘Your holiness,” she said in a shrill voice, by now 
weeping bitterly, ‘uncle, mother and all of us are 
left very wretched. . . . Give usa little money .. . 
dobekind! >.> scuncle darline:*.):.7 

He, too, was moved to tears, and for a long time 
was too much touched to speak. Then he stroked 
her on the head, patted her on the shoulder and said: 

‘““Very good, very good, my child. When the 
holy Easter comes, we will talk it over. . . . I will 
help your.) 1 willthelpiyounit. 77 

His mother came in quietly, timidly, and prayed 
before the ikon. Noticing that he was not sleeping, 
she said: 

‘Won't you have a drop of soup? ”’ 

‘No, thank you,” he answered, ‘‘ I am not hun- 
gry.” 

‘You seem to be unwell, now I look at you. I 
should think so; you may well be ill! The whole 
day on your legs, the whole day. . . . And, my good- 
ness, it makes one’s heart ache even to look at you! 
Well, Easter is not far off; you will rest then, please 
God. Then we will have a talk, too, but now I’m 
not going to disturb you with my chatter. Come 
along, Katya; let his holiness sleep a little.” 


The Bishop 21 


And he remembered how once very long ago, when 
he was a boy, she had spoken exactly like that, in 
the same jestingly respectful tone, with a Church 
dignitary. . . . Only from her extraordinarily kind 
eyes and the timid, anxious glance she stole at him as 
she went out of the room could one have guessed that 
this was his mother. He shut his eyes and seemed 
to sleep, but twice heard the clock strike and Father 
Sisoy coughing the other side of the wall. And once 
more his mother came in and looked timidly at him 
for a minute. Someone drove up to the steps, as 
he could hear, in a coach or in a chaise. Suddenly 
a knock, the door slammed, the lay brother came into 
the bedroom. 

‘Your holiness,” he called. 

oWelli3 

‘“The horses are here; it’s time for the evening 
service.” 

“What o'clock is it?” 

‘“‘ A quarter past seven.” 

He dressed and drove to the cathedral. During 
all the ‘‘ Twelve Gospels”’ he had to stand in the 
middle of the church without moving, and the first 
gospel, the longest and the most beautiful, he read 
himself. A meaod of confidence and courage came 
over him. That first gospel, ‘‘ Now is the Son of 
Man glorified,’ he knew by heart; and as he read 
he raised his eyes from time to time, and saw on 
both sides a perfect sea of lights and heard the 
splutter of candles, but, as in past years, he could not 
see the people, and it seemed as though these were 
all the same people as had been round him in those 
days, in his childhood and his youth; that they would 


22 The Tales of Chekhov 


always be the same every year and till such time as 
God only knew. 

His father had been a deacon, his grandfather a 
priest, his great-grandfather a deacon, and his whole 
family, perhaps from the days when Christianity 
had been accepted in Russia, had belonged to the 
priesthood; and his love for the Church services, for 
the priesthood, for the peal of the bells, was deep 
in him, ineradicable, innate. In church, particularly 
when he took part in the service, he felt vigorous, 
of good cheer, happy. So it was now. Only when 
the eighth gospel had been read, he felt that his 
voice had grown weak, even his cough was inaudible. 
His head had begun to ache intensely, and he was 
troubled by a fear that he might fall down. And 
his legs were indeed quite numb, so that by degrees 
he ceased to feel them and could not understand how 
or on what he was standing, and why he did not 
Palle ctyie 

It was a quarter to twelve when the service was 
over. When he reached home, the bishop undressed 
and went to bed at once without even saying his 
prayers. He could not speak and felt that he could 
not have stood up. When he had covered his head 
with the quilt he felt a sudden longing to be abroad, 
an insufferable longing! He felt that he would give 
his life not to see those pitiful cheap shutters, those 
low ceilings, not to smell that heavy monastery smell. 
If only there were one person to whom he could have 
talked, have opened his heart! 

For a long while he heard footsteps in the next 
room and could not tell whose they were. At last 


The Bishop 23 


the door opened, and Sisoy came in with a candle and 
a tea-cup in his hand. 

“You are in bed already, your holiness?” he 
asked. ‘‘ Here I have come to rub you with spirit 
and vinegar. A thorough rubbing does a great deal 
of good. Lord Jesus Christ! . . . That’s the way 

. that’s the way. . . . I’ve just been in our mon- 
astery. . . . I don’t like it. I’m going away from 
here to-morrow, your holiness; I don’t want to 
stay longer. Lord Jesus Christ. . . . That’s the 
mayen” 

Sisoy could never stay long in the same place, and 
he felt as though he had been a whole year in the 
Pankratievsky Monastery. Above all, listening to 
him it was difficult to understand where his home 
was, whether he cared for anyone or anything, 
whether he believed in God. . . . He did not know 
himself why he was a monk, and, indeed, he did 
not think about it, and the time when he had become 
a monk had long passed out of his memory; it seemed 
as though he had been born a monk. 

“I’m going away to-morrow; God be with them 
alt” 

‘““T should like to talk to you. . . . I can’t find 
the time,”’ said the bishop softly with an effort. “I 
don’t know anything or anybody here. . . ..” 

“Tl stay till Sunday if you like; so be it, but I 
don’t want to stay longer. I am sick of them!”’ 

“TI ought not to be a bishop,” said the bishop 
softly. ‘‘I ought to have been a village priest, a 
deacon . . . or simply a monk. .. . All this op- 
presses me . . . oppresses me.”’ 


24 The Tales of Chekhoy 
“What? Lord Jesus, Christ. .)....... Dhatsae 


way. Come, sleep well, your holiness! .. 
What's the good of talking? It’s no use. Good- 
night! ”’ 

The bishop did not sleep all night. And at eight 
o’clock in the morning he began to have hemorrhage 
from the bowels. ‘The lay brother was alarmed, 
and ran first to the archimandrite, then for the mon- 
astery doctor, Ivan Andreyitch, who lived in the 
town. ‘The doctor, a stout old man with a long grey 
beard, made a prolonged examination of the bishop, 
and kept shaking his head and frowning, then said: 

“Do you know, your holiness, you have got 
typhoid?” 

After an hour or so of hemorrhage the bishop 
looked much thinner, paler, and wasted; his face 
looked wrinkled, his eyes looked bigger, and he 
seemed older, shorter, and it seemed to him that 
he was thinner, weaker, more insignificant than any- 
one, that everything that had been had retreated 
far, far away and would never go on again or be 
repeated. 

“ How good,” he thought, “ how good!” 

His old mother came. Seeing his wrinkled face 
and his big eyes, she was frightened, she fell on her 
knees by the bed and began kissing his face, his 
shoulders, his hands. And to her, too, it seemed 
that he was thinner, weaker, and more insignificant 
than anyone, and now she forgot that he was a 
bishop, and kissed him as though he were a child 
very near and very dear to her. 

‘“Pavlusha, darling,” she said; ‘““my own, my 


The Bishop 25 


darling son! ... Why are you like this? Pay- 
lusha, answer me!” 

Katya, pale and severe, stood beside her, unable 
to understand what was the matter with her uncle, 
why there was such a look of suffering on her grand- 
mother’s face, why she was saying such sad and 
touching things. By now he could not utter a word, 
he could understand nothing, and he imagined he was 
a simple ordinary man, that he was walking quickly, 
cheerfully through the fields, tapping with his stick, 
while above him was the open sky bathed in sunshine, 
and that he was free now as a bird and could go 
where he liked! 

‘‘Pavlusha, my darling son, answer me,” the old 
woman was saying. ‘‘ What is it? My own!” 

‘Don’t disturb his holiness,” Sisoy said angrily, 
walking about the room. ‘Let him sleeps: st 
mihat's! the: use; 2)4 in it's noy@ood.; |. |." 

Three doctors arrived, consulted together, and 
went away again. The day was long, incredibly 
long, then the night came on and passed slowly, 
slowly, and towards morning on Saturday the lay 
brother went in to the old mother who was lying on 
the sofa in the parlour, and asked her to go into the 
bedroom: the bishop had just breathed his last. 

Next day was Easter Sunday. There were forty- 
two.churches and six monasteries in the town; the 
sonorous, joyful clang of the bells hung over the 
town from morning till night unceasingly, setting the 
spring air aquiver; the birds were singing, the sun 
was shining brightly. The big market square was 
noisy, swings were going, barrel organs were playing, 


26 The Tales of Chekhov 


accordions were squeaking, drunken voices were 
shouting. After midday people began driving up 
and down the principal street. 

In short, all was merriment, everything was sat- 
isfactory, just as it had been the year before, and as 
it will be in all likelihood next year. 

A month later a new suffragan bishop was ap- 
pointed, and no one thought anything more of Bishop 
Pyotr, and afterwards he was completely forgotten. 
And only the dead man’s old mother, who is living 
to-day with her son-in-law the deacon in a remote 
little district town, when she goes out at night to 
bring her cow in and meets other women at the 
pasture, begins talking of her children and her grand- 
children, and says that she had a son a bishop, and 
this she says timidly, afraid that she may not be be- 
levedqus 

And, indeed, there are some who do not believe 


her. 


THE LETTER 










ru i 


Pal va PAR) al es hi ree 
Ph LY el Tie) fs 
tay on 1 


MatTat: ah] 
- - i . ; i way F 


4 1 F ; A ie mM f 
iV H . “ay ‘ yy 
ad Nt fil See. | 
kee, 
a fe! ie | On a Maas in) 
paaee Dh fi a 





oN aan at. uw ae 
‘ iy ” x ae a ‘ 
7 whe i . , ol 
erm ae SAS SEL ued eae 
wey = : ‘ Pali 
ae 
is 
| / 





b 
mi atau ‘ ; f ' F 
AVM i rm bal Ale i F je , 
‘or Wail a A hOet te : 


WHE LETTER 


Tue clerical superintendent of the district, his Rever- 
ence Father Fyodor Orlov, a handsome, well-nour- 
ished man of fifty, grave and important as he always 
was, with an habitual expression of dignity that never 
left his face, was walking to and fro in his little 
drawing-room, extremely exhausted, and thinking in- 
tensely about the same thing: ‘‘ When would his 
visitor go?’ The thought worried him and did not 
leave him for a minute. The visitor, Father Anas- 
tasy, the priest of one of the villages near the town, 
had come to him three hours before on some very 
unpleasant and dreary business of his own, had stayed 
on and on, was now sitting in the corner at a little 
round table with his elbow on a thick account book, 
and apparently had no thought of going, though it 
was getting on for nine o’clock in the evening. 
Not everyone knows when to be silent and when to 
go. It not infrequently happens that even diplomatic 
persons of good worldly breeding fail to observe that 
their presence is arousing a feeling akin to hatred in 
their exhausted or busy host, and that this feeling is 
being concealed with an effort and disguised with a 
lie. But Father Anastasy perceived it clearly, and 
realized that his presence was burdensome and in- 
appropriate, that his Reverence, who had taken an 
early morning service in the night and a long mass 
at midday, was exhausted and longing for repose; 
29 


30 The Tales of Chekhov 


every minute he was meaning to get up and go, but 
he did not get up, he sat on as though he were 
waiting for something. He was an old man of sixty- 
five, prematurely aged, with a bent and bony figure, 
with a sunken face and the dark skin of old age, with 
red eyelids and a long narrow back like a fish’s; he 
was dressed in a smart cassock of a light lilac colour, 
but too big for him (presented to him by the widow 
of a young priest lately deceased), a full cloth coat 
with a broad leather belt, and clumsy high boots the 
size and hue of which showed clearly that Father 
Anastasy dispensed with goloshes. In spite of his 
position and his venerable age, there was something 
pitiful, crushed and humiliated in his lustreless red 
eyes, in the strands of grey hair with a shade of 
green in it on the nape of his neck, and in the big 
shoulder-blades on his lean back. . . . He sat with- 
out speaking or moving, and coughed with circum- 
spection, as though afraid that the sound of his 
coughing might make his presence more noticeable. 

The old man had come to see his Reverence on 
business. “Two months before he had been pro- 
hibited from officiating till further notice, and his 
case was being inquired into. His shortcomings 
were numerous. He was intemperate in his habits, 
fell out with the other clergy and the commune, kept 
the church records and accounts carelessly — these 
were the formal charges against him; but besides 
all that, there had been rumours for a long time past 
that he celebrated unlawful marriages for money and 
sold certificates of having fasted and taken the sacra- 
ment to officials and officers who came to him from 
the town. ‘These rumours were maintained the more 


The Letter a1 


persistently that he was poor and had nine children 
to keep, who were as incompetent and unsuccessful 
as himself. ‘The sons were spoilt and uneducated, 
and stayed at home doing nothing, while the daugh- 
ters were ugly and did not get married. 

Not having the moral force to be open, his Rever- 
ence walked up and down the room and said nothing 
or spoke in hints. 

‘So you are not going home to-night? ”’ he asked, 
stopping near the dark window and poking with his 
little finger into the cage where a canary was asleep 
with its feathers puffed out. 

Father Anastasy started, coughed cautiously and 
said rapidly: 

“Home? I don’t care to, Fyodor Ilyitch. I can- 
not officiate, as you know, so what am I to do there? 
I came away on purpose that I might not have to 
look the people in the face. One is ashamed not 
to officiate, as you know. Besides, I have business 
here, Fyodor Ilyitch. To-morrow after breaking 
the fast I want to talk things over thoroughly with 
the Father charged with the inquiry.” 

“Ah! .. .” yawned his Reverence, “‘ and where 
are you staying?” 

“ At Zyavkin’s.” 

Father Anastasy suddenly remembered that within 
two hours his Reverence had to take the Easter-night 
service, and he felt so ashamed of his unwelcome 
burdensome presence that he made up his mind to 
go away at once and let the exhausted man rest. 
And the old man got up to go. But before he began 
saying good-bye he stood clearing his throat for a 
minute and looking searchingly at his Reverence’s 


32 The Tales of Chekhov 


back, still with the same expression of vague expecta- 
tion in his whole figure; his face was working with 
shame, timidity, and a pitiful forced laugh such as 
one sees in people who do not respect themselves. 
Waving his hand as it were resolutely, he said with 
a husky quavering laugh: 

“Father Fyodor, do me one more kindness: bid 
them give me at leave-taking . . . one little glass of 
vodka.” 

‘“Tt’s not the time to drink vodka now,” said his 
Reverence sternly. ‘‘One must have some regard 
for decency.” 

Father Anastasy was still more overwhelmed by 
confusion; he laughed, and, forgetting his resolution 
to go away, dropped back on his chair. His Rever- 
ence looked at his helpless, embarrassed face and his 
bent figure and he felt sorry for the old man. 

‘“ Please God, we will have a drink to-morrow,” 
he said, wishing to soften his stern refusal. ‘ Every- 
thing is good in due season.”’ 

His Reverence believed in people’s reforming, 
but now when a feeling of pity had been kindled in 
him it seemed to him that this disgraced, worn-out 
old man, entangled in a network of sins and weak- 
nesses, was hopelessly wrecked, that there was no 
power on earth that could straighten out his spine, 
give brightness to his eyes and restrain the unpleasant 
timid laugh which he laughed on purpose to smooth 
over to some slight extent the repulsive impression 
he made on people. 

The old man seemed now to Father Fyodor not 
guilty and not vicious, but humiliated, insulted, un- 
fortunate; his Reverence thought of his wife, his nine 


The Teeter 22 


children, the dirty beggarly shelter at Zyavkin’s; he 
thought for some reason of the people who are glad 
to see priests drunk and persons in authority detected 
in crimes; and thought that the very best thing Father 
Anastasy could do now would be to die as soon as 
possible and to depart from this world for ever. 

There was a sound of footsteps. 

‘Father Fyodor, you are not resting?” a bass 
voice asked from the passage. 

‘No, deacon; come in.’ 

Orlov’s colleague, the deacon amine an elderly 
man with a big bald patch on the top of his head, 
though his hair was still black and he was still vig- 
orous-looking with thick black eyebrows like a 
Georgian’s, walked in. He bowed to Father Anas- 
tasy and sat down. 

“ What good news have you?”’ asked his Rever- 
ence. 

‘What good news?” answered the deacon, and 
after a pause he went on with a smile: ‘‘ When 
your children are little, your trouble is small; when 
your children are big, your trouble is great. Such 
goings on, Father Fyodor, that I don’t know what 
to think of it. It’s a regular farce, that’s what it 
ist. 

He paused again for a little, smiled still more 
broadly and said: 

“Nikolay Matveyitch came back from Harkov 
to-day. He has been telling me about my Pyotr. 
He has been to see him twice, he tells me.”’ 

‘What has he been telling you, then? ”’ 

“He has upset me, God bless him. He meant 
to please me, but when I came to think it over, it 


34 The Tales of Chekhov 


seems there is not much to be pleased at. I ought 
to grieve rather than be pleased. . . . ‘ Your Pe- 
trushka,’ said he, ‘lives in fine style. He is far 
above us now,’ said he. ‘ Well, thank God for that,’ 
said I. ‘I dined with him,’ said he, ‘and saw his 
whole manner of life. He lives like a gentleman,’ — 
he said; ‘ you couldn’t wish to live better.’ I was 
naturally interested and I asked, ‘ And what did you 
have for dinner?’ ‘ First,’ he said, ‘a fish course 
something like fish soup, then tongue and peas,’ and 
then he said, ‘ roast turkey.’ ‘ Turkey in Lent? that 
is something to please me,’ said I. ‘Turkey in 
entry. Bh?) » 

‘“ Nothing marvellous in that,” said his Reverence, 
screwing up his eyes ironically. And sticking both 
thumbs in his belt, he drew himself up and said in © 
the tone in which he usually delivered discourses or 
gave his Scripture lessons to the pupils in the district 
school: ‘‘ People who do not keep the fasts are 
divided into two different categories: some do not 
keep them through laxity, others through infidelity. 
Your Pyotr does not keep them through infidelity. 
Yes.” 

The deacon looked timidly at Father Fyodor’s 
stern face and said: 

‘There is worse to follow. . . . We talked and 
discussed one thing and another, and it turned out 
that my infidel of a son is living with some madame, 
another man’s wife. She takes the place of wife and © 
hostess in his flat, pours out the tea, receives visitors 
and all the rest of it, as though she were his lawful 
wife. For over two years he has been keeping up 
this dance with this viper. It’s a regular farce. 


The Letter ets 


They have been living together three years and no 
children.” 

‘‘T suppose they have been living in chastity!” 
chuckled Father Anastasy, coughing huskily. 
._“ There are children, Father Deacon — there are, 
but they don’t keep them at home! ‘They send them 
to the Foundling! MHe-he-he! ...” Anastasy 
went on coughing till he choked. 

‘Don’t interfere, Father Anastasy,” said his Rev- 
erence sternly. 

‘“ Nikolay Matveyitch asked him, ‘ What madame 
is this helping the soup at your table?’ ”’ the deacon 
went on, gloomily scanning Anastasy’s bent figure. 
“That is my wife,’ said he. ‘When was your 
wedding?’ Nikolay Matveyitch asked him, and 
Pyotr answered, ‘We were married at Kulikov’s 
restaurant.’ ” 

His Reverence’s eyes flashed wrathfully and the 
colour came into his temples. Apart from his sin- 
fulness, Pyotr was not a person he liked. Father 
Fyodor had, as they say, a grudge against him. He 
remembered him a boy at school — he remembered 
him distinctly, because even then the boy had seemed 
to him not normal. As a schoolboy, Petrusha had 
been ashamed to serve at the altar, had been offended 
at being addressed without ceremony, had not 
crossed himself on entering the room, and what was 
still more noteworthy, was fond of talking a great 
deal and with heat— and, in Father Fyodor’s 
opinion, much talking was unseemly in children and 
pernicious to them; moreover Petrusha had taken up 
a contemptuous and critical attitude to fishing, a pur- 
suit to which both his Reverence and the deacon were 


36 The Tales of Chekhov 


greatly addicted. As a student Pyotr had not gone 
to church at all, had slept till midday, had looked 
down on people, and had been given to raising deli- 
cate and insoluble questions with a peculiarly pro- 
voking zest. 

‘What would you have?” his Reverence asked, 
going up to the deacon and looking at him angrily. 
‘What would you have? This was to be expected! 
I always knew and was convinced that nothing good 
would come of your Pyotr! I told you so, and I 
tell youso now. What you have sown, that now you 
must reap! Reap it!” 

‘““But what have I sown, Father Fyodor?” the 
deacon asked softly, looking up at his Reverence. 

‘“ Why, who is to blame if not you? You're his 
father, he is your offspring! You ought to have ad- 
monished him, have instilled the fear of God into 
him. A child must be taught! You have brought 
him into the world, but you haven’t trained him up 
in the right way. It’s a sin! It’s wrong! It’s a 
shame! ” 

His Reverence forgot his exhaustion, paced to and 
fro and went on talking. Drops of perspiration 
came out on the deacon’s bald head and forehead. 
He raised his eyes to his Reverence with a look of 
guilt, and said: 

‘But didn’t I train him, Father Fyodor? Lord 
have mercy on us, haven’t I been a father to my 
children? You know yourself I spared nothing for 
his good; I have prayed and done my best all my 
life to give him a thorough education. He went to 
the high school and I got him tutors, and he took 
his degree at the University. And as to my not be- 


The. Letter Bq 


ing able to influence his mind, Father Fyodor, why, 
you can judge for yourself that I am not qualified 
to do so! Sometimes when he used to come here as 
a student, I would begin admonishing him in my way, 
and he wouldn’t heed me. Id say to him, ‘ Go to 
church,’ and he would answer, ‘What for?’ I 
would begin explaining, and he would say, ‘ Why? 
what for?’ Or he would slap me on the shoulder 
and say, ‘Everything in this world is relative, ap- 
proximate and conditional. JI don’t know anything, 
and you don’t know anything either, dad.’ ”’ 

Father Anastasy laughed huskily, cleared his 
throat and waved his fingers in the air as though 
preparing to say something. His Reverence glanced 
at him and said sternly: 

‘“’ Don’t interfere, Father Anastasy.” 

The old man laughed, beamed, and evidently 
listened with pleasure to the deacon as though he 
were glad there were other sinful persons in this 
world besides himself. The deacon spoke sincerely, 
with an aching heart, and tears actually came into his 
eyes. Father Fyodor felt sorry for him. 

‘“You are to blame, deacon, you are to blame,” 
he said, but not so sternly and heatedly as before. 
“Tf you could beget him, you ought to know how to 
instruct him. You ought to have trained him in his 
childhood; it’s no good trying to correct a student.” 

A silence followed; the deacon clasped his hands 
and said with a sigh: 

‘But you know I shall have to answer for him!” 

‘To be sure you will! ” 

After a brief silence his Reverence yawned and 
sighed at the same moment and asked: 


28 The Tales of Chekhov 


“Who is reading the ‘ Acts’? ”’ 

“Yevstrat. Yevstrat always reads them.” 

The deacon got up and, looking imploringly at 
his Reverence, asked: 

“Father Fyodor, what am I to do now? ”’ 

‘“Do as you please; you are his father, not I. 
You ought to know best.” 

“IT don’t know anything, Father Fyodor! Tell 
me what to do, for goodness’ sake! Would you 
believe it, I am sick at heart! I can’t sleep now, 
nor keep quiet, and the holiday will be no holiday to 
me. Tell me what to do, Father Bye ‘ 

“Write him a letter.”’ 

“ What am I to write to him?” 

‘Write that he mustn’t go on like that. Write 
shortly, but sternly and circumstantially, without soft- 
ening or smoothing away his guilt. It is your pa- 
rental duty; if you write, you will have done your 
duty and will be at peace.” 

“That's true. But what am I to write to him, to 
what effect? If I write to him, he will answer, 
‘Why? what for? Why is it a sin?’” 

Father Anastasy laughed hoarsely again, and 
brandished his fingers. 

“Why? what for? why is it a sin?’’ he began 
shrilly. ‘ I was once confessing a gentleman, and I 
told him that excessive confidence in the Divine 
Mercy is a sin; and he asked, ‘Why?’ I tried to 
answer him, but ” Anastasy slapped himself 
on the forehead. ‘I had nothing here. He-he-he- 
ed ace 

Anastasy’s words, his hoarse jangling laugh at 
what was not laughable, had an unpleasant effect 





he Letter 39 


on his Reverence and on the deacon. » The former 
was on the point of saying, ‘‘ Don’t interfere ” again, 
but he did not say it, he only frowned. 

‘“‘T can’t write to him,” sighed the deacon. 

“Tf you can’t, who can?”’ 

“Father Fyodor!” said the deacon, putting his 
head on one side and pressing his hand to his heart. 
‘““T am an uneducated slow-witted man, while the 
Lord has vouchsafed you judgment and wisdom. 
You know everything and understand everything. 
You can master anything, while I don’t know how 
to put my words together sensibly. Be generous. 
Instruct me how to write the letter. Teach me what 
to say and how to say it... .” 

‘What is there to teach? ‘There is nothing to 
teach. Sit down and write.”’ 

““Oh, do me the favour, Father Fyodor! I be- 
seech you! I know he will be frightened and will 
attend to your letter, because, you see, you are a 
cultivated man too. Dobeso good! I'll sit down, 
and you'll dictate to me. It will be a sin to write 
to-morrow, but now would be the very time; my 
mind would be set at rest.”’ 

His Reverence looked at the deacon’s imploring 
face, thought of the disagreeable Pyotr, and con- 
sented to dictate. He made the deacon sit down to 
his table and began. 

‘Well, write . .. ‘Christ is risen, dear son 

* exclamation mark. ‘ Rumours have reached 
me, your father,’ then in parenthesis, ‘ from what 
source is no concern of yours . . .” close the paren- 
thesis. . . . Have you written it? ‘ that you are lead- 
ing a life inconsistent with the laws both of God 


40 The Tales of Chekhov 


and of man. Neither the luxurious comfort, nor the 
worldly splendour, nor the culture with which you 
seek outwardly to disguise it, can hide your heathen 
manner of life. In name you are a Christian, but in 
your real nature a heathen as pitiful and wretched 
as all other heathens — more wretched, indeed, see- 
ing that those heathens who know not Christ are lost 
from ignorance, while you are lost in that, possessing 
a treasure, you neglect it. I will not enumerate here 
your vices, which you know well enough; I will say 
that I see the cause of your ruin in your infidelity. 
You imagine yourself to be wise, boast of your 
knowledge of science, but refuse to see that science 
without faith, far from elevating a man, actually de- 
grades him to the level of a lower animal, inasmuch 
as...” The whole letter was in this strain. 

When he had finished writing it the deacon read it 
aloud, beamed all over and jumped up. 

“Tt’s a gift, it’s really a gift!” he said, clasping 
his hands and looking enthusiastically at his Rever- 
ence. ‘‘ To think of the Lord’s bestowing a gift 
like that! Eh? Holy Mother! I do believe I 
couldn’t write a letter like that in a hundred years. 
Lord save you!” 

Father Anastasy was enthusiastic too. 

““One couldn’t write like that without a gift,” 
he said, getting up and wagging his fingers — “‘ that 
one couldn’t! His rhetoric would trip any philoso- 
pher and shut him up. Intellect! Brilliant intel- 
lect! If you weren’t married, Father Fyodor, you 
would have been a bishop long ago, you would 
really! ” 

Having vented his wrath in a letter, his Rever- 


‘Lhe’ ‘Lettér Al 


ence felt relieved; his fatigue and exhaustion came 
back to him. The deacon was an old friend, and his 
Reverence did not hesitate to say to him: 

‘Well, deacon, go, and God bless you. I’ll have 
half an hour’s nap on the sofa; I must rest.” 

The deacon went away and took Anastasy with 
him. As is always the case on Easter Eve, it was 
dark in the street, but the whole sky was sparkling 
with bright luminous stars. There was a scent of 
spring and holiday in the soft still air. 

‘“How long was he dictating?” the deacon said 
admiringly. ‘‘ Ten minutes, not more! It would 
have taken someone else a month to compose such 
a letter. Eh! What a mind! Such a mind that 
I don’t know what to call it! It’s a marvel! It’s 
really a marvel!” 

‘““Fducation!”’ sighed Anastasy as he crossed the 
muddy street, holding up his cassock to his waist. 
‘It’s not for us to compare ourselves with him. 
We come of the sacristan class, while he has had a 
learned education. Yes, he’s a real man, there is no 
denying that.” 

‘“And you listen how he’ll read the Gospel in 
Latin at mass to-day! He knows Latin and he 
knows Greek. . . . Ah, Petrushka, Petrushka!”’ the 
deacon said, suddenly remembering. ‘‘ Now that 
will make him scratch his head! That will shut his 
mouth, that will bring it home to him! Now he 
won’t ask ‘ Why.’ It is a case of one wit to outwit 
another! WHa-ha-ha!” 

The deacon laughed gaily and loudly. Since the 
letter had been written to Pyotr he had become serene 
and more cheerful. The consciousness of having 


‘42 The Tales of Chekhov 


performed his duty as a father and his faith in the 
power of the letter had brought back his mirthfulness 
and good-humour. 

‘“‘ Pyotr means a stone,” said he, as he went into 
his house. ‘‘ My Pyotr is not a stone, but a rag. 
A viper has fastened upon him and he pampers her, 
and hasn’t the pluck to kick her out. Tfoo! To 
think there should be women like that, God forgive 
me! Eh? Has she no shame? She has fastened 
upon the lad, sticking to him, and keeps him tied to 
her apron-strings. . . . Fie upon her!” 

‘‘ Perhaps it’s not she keeps hold of him, but he 
of her?” 

‘She is a shameless one anyway! Not that I 
am defending Pyotr. ... He'll catch it. He'll 
read the letter and scratch his head! He'll burn 
with shame! ” 

‘“Tt’s a splendid letter, only you know I wouldn’t 
send it, Father Deacon. Let him alone.” 

‘What! ”’ said the deacon, disconcerted. 

“Why. . . . Don’t send it, deacon! What's the 
sense of it? Suppose you send it; he reads it, and 

. and what then? You'll only upset him. For- 
give him. Let him alone! ”’ 

The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy’s dark 
face, at his unbuttoned cassock, which looked in the 
dusk like wings, and shrugged his shoulders. 

“How can I forgive him like that?” he asked. 
“Why, I shall have to answer for him to God!” 

‘““Fiven so, forgive him all the same. Really! 
And God will forgive you for your kindness to him.” 

‘But he is my son, isn’t he? Ought I not to 
teach him?” 


’ 


The Letter 43 


“Teach him? Of course —why not? You can 
teach him, but why call him a heathen? It will 
hurt his feelings, you know, deacon. . . .” 

The deacon was a widower, and lived in a little 
house with three windows. His elder sister, an old 
maid, looked after his house for him, though she 
had three years before lost the use of her legs and 
was confined to her bed; he was afraid of her, obeyed 
her, and did nothing without her advice. Father 
Anastasy went in with him. Seeing the table already 
laid with Easter cakes and red eggs, he began weep- 
ing for some reason, probably thinking of his own 
home, and to turn these tears into a jest, he at once 
laughed huskily. 

“Yes, we shall soon be breaking the fast,” he 
said. ‘‘ Yes... it wouldn’t come amiss, deacon, 
to‘have a little glass now. Can we? I'll drink it 
so that the old lady does not hear,” he whispered, 
glancing sideways towards the door. 

Without a word the deacon moved a decanter and 
wineglass towards him. He unfolded the letter and 
began reading it aloud. And now the letter pleased 
him just as much as when his Reverence had dictated 
itto him. He beamed with pleasure and wagged his 
head, as though he had been tasting something very 
sweet. 

** A-ah, what a letter!’’ he said. ‘‘ Petrushka has 
never dreamt of such a letter. It’s just what he 
wants, something to throw him into a fever. .. .” 

““Do you know, deacon, don’t send it!” said 
Anastasy, pouring himself out a second glass of 
vodka as though unconsciously. ‘“‘ Forgive him; let 
him alone! I am telling you ... what I really 


44 The Tales of Chekhov 


think. If his own father can’t forgive him, who 
will forgive him? And so he’ll live without forgive- 
ness. ‘Think, deacon: there will be plenty to chastise 
him without you; but you should look out for some 
who will show mercy to your son! Til... Pil 

. have just one more. ‘The last, old man... . 
Just sit down and write straight off to him, ‘ I forgive 
you, Pyotr!’ He will under-sta-and! He will fe-el 
it! I understand it from myself, you see, old man 

. deacon, I mean. When I lived like other 
people, I hadn’t much to trouble about, but now since 
I lost the image and semblance, there is only one 
thing I care about, that good people should forgive 
me. And, remember, too, it’s not the righteous but 
sinners we must forgive. Why should you forgive 
your old woman if she is not sinful? No, you must 
forgive a man when he is a sad sight to look at . . . 
VieSies 

Anastasy leaned his head on his fist and sank into 
thought. 

‘It’s a terrible thing, deacon,” he sighed, evi- 
dently struggling with the desire to take another 
glass —‘‘a terrible thing! In sin my mother bore 
me, in sin I have lived, in sin I shall die. . . . God 
forgive me, a sinner! I have gone astray, deacon! 
There is no salvation for me! And it’s not as 
though I had gone astray in my life, but in old age — 
at death:s:door,.1 = ie 

The old man, with a hopeless gesture, drank off 
another glass, then got up and moved to another 
seat. [he deacon, still keeping the letter in his 
hand, was walking up and down the room. He 
was thinking of his son. Displeasure, distress and 


he ‘Letter 45 


anxiety no longer troubled him; all that had gone 
into the letter. Now he was simply picturing Pyotr; 
he imagined his face, he thought of past years when 
his son used to come to stay with him for the holi- 
days. His thoughts were only of what was good, 
warm, touching, of which one might think for a 
whole lifetime without wearying. Longing for his 
son, he read the letter through once more and looked 
questioningly at Anastasy. 

‘Don’t send it,”’ said the latter, with a wave of 
his hand. . ‘ 

‘“No, I must send it anyway; I must . . . bring 
him to his senses a little, all the same. It’s just as 
punta) 

The deacon took an envelope from the table, but 
before putting the letter into it he sat down to the 
table, smiled and added on his own account at the 
bottom of the letter: 

‘They have sent us a new inspector. He’s much 
friskier than the old one. He’s a great one for 
dancing and talking, and there’s nothing he can’t 
do, so that all the Govorovsky girls are crazy over 
him. Our military chief, Kostyrev, will soon get 
the sack too, they say. High time he did!” And 
very well pleased, without the faintest idea that with 
this postscript he had completely spoiled the stern 
letter, the deacon addressed the envelope and laid it 
in the most conspicuous place on the table. 








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EASTER EVE 


I was standing on the bank of the River Goltva, 
waiting for the ferry-boat from the other side. At 
ordinary times the Goltva is a humble stream of 
moderate size, silent and pensive, gently glimmering 
from behind thick reeds; but now a regular lake lay 
stretched out before me. ‘The waters of spring, run- 
ning riot, had overflowed both banks and flooded 
both sides of the river for a long distance, submerg- 
ing vegetable gardens, hayfields and marshes, so that 
it was no unusual thing to meet poplars and bushes 
sticking out above the surface of the water and 
looking in the darkness like grim solitary crags. 
The weather seemed to me magnificent. It was 
dark, yet I could see the trees, the water and the 
people. . . . The world was lighted by the stars, 
which were scattered thickly all over the sky. I 
don’t remember ever seeing so many stars. Liter- 
ally one could not have put a finger in between them. 
There were some as big as a goose’s egg, others tiny 
as hempseed. . . . They had come out for the festi- 
val procession, every one of them, little and big, 
washed, renewed and joyful, and every one of them 
was softly twinkling its beams. The sky was re- 
flected in the water; the stars were bathing in its 
dark depths and trembling with the quivering eddies. 
The air was warm and still. . . . Here and there, 
far away on the further bank in the impenetrable 
49 


50 The Tales of Chekhov 


darkness, several bright red lights were gleam- 
igs ss 

A couple of paces from me I saw the dark 
silhouette of a peasant in a high hat, with a thick 
knotted stick in his hand. 

‘“‘ How long the ferry-boat is in coming!” I said. 

“Tt is time it was here,” the silhouette answered. 

‘“ You are waiting for the ferry-boat, too?” 

‘“No, I am not,” yawned the peasant —“‘I am 
waiting for the illumination. I should have gone, 
but, to tell you the truth, I haven’t the five kopecks 
for the terry: © 

‘‘ T’ll give you the five kopecks.”’ 

‘No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that five 
kopecks put up a candle for me over there in the 
monastery. . . . That will be more interesting, and 
I will stand here. What can it mean, no ferry-boat, 
as though it had sunk in the water!” 

The peasant went up to the water’s edge, took the 
rope in his hands, and shouted: ‘“Ieronim! lIeron 
—im!” 

As though in answer to his shout, the slow peal 
of a great bell floated across from the further bank. 
The note was deep and low, as from the thickest 
string of a double bass; it seemed as though the 
darkness itself had hoarsely uttered it. At once 
there was the sound of a cannon shot. It rolled 
away in the darkness and ended somewhere in the 
far distance behind me. ‘The peasant took off his 
hat and crossed himself. 

‘“‘ Christ is risen,’ he said. 

Before the vibrations of the first peal of the bell 
had time to die away in the air a second sounded, 


50 The Tales of Chekhov 


darkness, several bright red lights were gleam- 
MAP es bs 

A couple of paces from me I saw the dark 
silhouette of a peasant in a high hat, with a thick 
knotted stick in his hand. 

‘‘ How long the ferry-boat is in coming!”’ I said. 

“Tt is time it was here,” the silhouette answered. 

“You are waiting for the ferry-boat, too?” 

‘“No, I am not,” yawned the peasant — “I am 
waiting for the illumination. I should have gone, 
but, to tell you the truth, I haven’t the five kopecks 
forthe Terry, 

‘“T'll give you the five kopecks.”’ 

‘““No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that five 
kopecks put up a candle for me over there in the 
monastery. . . . That will be more interesting, and 
I will stand here. What can it mean, no ferry-boat, 
as though it had sunk in the water!” 

The peasant went up to the water’s edge, took the 
rope in his hands, and shouted: “Ieronim! Ieron 
—im!” 

As though in answer to his shout, the slow peal 
of a great bell floated across from the further bank. 
The note was deep and low, as from the thickest 
string of a double bass; it seemed as though the 
darkness itself had hoarsely uttered it. At once 
there was the sound of a cannon shot. It rolled 
away in the darkness and ended somewhere in the 
far distance behind me. The peasant took off his 
hat and crossed himself. 

“ Christ is risen,’ he said. 

Before the vibrations of the first peal of the bell 
had time to die away in the air a second sounded, 


Easter Eve 51 


after it at once a third, and the darkness was filled 
with an unbroken quivering clamour. Near the red 
lights fresh lights flashed, and all began moving to- 
gether and twinkling restlessly. 

‘“Teron—im!” we heard a hollow prolonged 
shout. 

‘They are shouting from the other bank,” said 
the peasant, “‘ so there is no ferry there either. Our 
Ieronim has gone to sleep.” 

The lights and the velvety chimes of the bell drew 
one towards them. . . . I was already beginning to 
lose patience and grow anxious, but behold at last, 
staring into the dark distance, I saw the outline of 
something very much like a gibbet. It was the long- 
expected ferry. It moved towards us with such de- 
liberation that if it had not been that its lines grew 
gradually more definite, one might have supposed 
that it was standing still or moving to the other bank. 

‘“Make haste! Jeronim!”’ shouted my peasant. 
“The gentleman’s tired of waiting!” 

The ferry crawled to the bank, gave a lurch and 
stopped with a creak. A tall man in a monk’s 
cassock and a conical cap stood on it, holding the 
rope. 

‘‘ Why have you been so long?”’ J asked, jumping 
upon the ferry. 

‘Forgive me, for Christ’s sake,’’ Ieronim an- 
swered gently. ‘“‘ Is there no one else?” 

“SIN @SOme: ete: 

Ieronim took hold of the rope in both hands, 
bent himself to the figure of a mark of interrogation, 
and gasped. ‘The ferry-boat creaked and gave a 
lurch. The outline of the peasant in the high hat 


Ges The Tales of Chekhov 


began slowly retreating from me — so the ferry was 
moving off. leronim soon drew himself up and 
began working with one hand only. We were silent, 
gazing towards the bank to which we were floating. 
There the illumination for which the peasant was 
waiting had begun. At the water’s edge barrels of 
tar were flaring like huge camp fires. Their reflec- 
tions, crimson as the rising moon, crept to meet us 
in long broad streaks. The burning barrels lighted 
up their own smoke and the long shadows of men 
flitting about the fire; but further to one side and 
behind them from where the velvety chime floated 
there was still the same unbroken black gloom. All 
at once, cleaving the darkness, a rocket zigzagged 
in a golden ribbon up the sky; it described an arc 
and, as though broken to pieces against the sky, was 
scattered crackling into sparks. “There was a roar 
from the bank like a far-away hurrah. 

‘’ How beautiful!” I said. 

‘Beautiful beyond words!” sighed Ieronim. 
‘Such a night, sir! Another time one would pay 
no attention to the fireworks, but to-day one rejoices 
in every vanity. Where do you come from?” 

I told him where I came from. 

) ROMBersne Hs « ned joyiul day to-day... < .” 
Ieronim went on in a weak sighing tenor like the 
voice of a convalescent. ‘‘ The sky is rejoicing and 
the earth, and what is under the earth. All the 
creatures are keeping holiday. Only tell me, kind 
sir, why, even in the time of great rejoicing, a man 
cannot forget his sorrows?” 

I fancied that this unexpected question was to 
draw me into one of those endless religious conversa- 


Easter Eve 53 


tions which bored and idle monks are so fond of. 
I was not disposed to talk much, and so I only asked: 

‘What sorrows have you, father?” 

“As a rule only the same as all men, kind sir, 
but to-day a special sorrow has happened in the 
monastery: at mass, during the reading of the Bible, 
the monk and deacon Nikolay died.” 

“Well, it’s God’s will!’ I said, falling into the 
monastic tone. ‘‘ We must all die. To my mind, 
you ought to rejoice indeed. . . . They say if any- 
one dies at Easter he goes straight to the kingdom of 
heaven.” 

“What's true.” 

We sank into silence. The figure of the peasant 
in the high hat melted into the lines of the bank. 
The tar barrels were flaring up more and more. 

“The Holy Scripture points clearly to the vanity 
of sorrow, and so does reflection,” said Ieronim, 
breaking the silence; ‘‘ but why does the heart grieve 
and refuse to listen to reason? Why does one want 
to weep bitterly?” 

Ieronim shrugged his shoulders, turned to me and 
said quickly: 

“Tf I died, or anyone else, it would not be worth 
notice, perhaps; but, you see, Nikolay is dead! No 
one else but Nikolay! Indeed, it’s hard to believe 
that he is no more! JI stand here on my ferry-boat 
and every minute I keep fancying that he will lift up 
his voice from the bank. He always used to come 
to the bank and call to me that I might not be afraid 
on the ferry. He used to get up from his bed at 
night on purpose for that. He was a kind soul. 
My God! how kindly and gracious! Many a 


Easter Eve 53 


tions which bored and idle monks are so fond of. 
I was not disposed to talk much, and so I only asked: 

‘What sorrows have you, father?” 

‘As a rule only the same as all men, kind sir, 
but to-day a special sorrow has happened in the 
monastery: at mass, during the reading of the Bible, 
the monk and deacon Nikolay died.” 

“Well, it’s God’s will!’ I said, falling into the 
monastic tone. ‘‘ We must all die. To my mind, 
you ought to rejoice indeed. . . . They say if any- 
one dies at Easter he goes straight to the kingdom of 
heaven.” 

> That's\true:: 

We sank into silence. The figure of the peasant 
in the high hat melted into the lines of the bank. 
The tar barrels were flaring up more and more. 

‘The Holy Scripture points clearly to the vanity 
of sorrow, and so does reflection,” said Ieronim, 
breaking the silence; ‘‘ but why does the heart grieve 
and refuse to listen to reason? Why does one want 
to weep bitterly?” 

Ieronim shrugged his shoulders, turned to me and 
said quickly: 

“Tf I died, or anyone else, it would not be worth 
notice, perhaps; but, you see, Nikolay is dead! No 
one else but Nikolay! Indeed, it’s hard to believe 
that he is no more! JI stand here on my ferry-boat 
and every minute I keep fancying that he will lift up 
his voice from the bank. He always used to come 
to the bank and call to me that I might not be afraid 
on the ferry. He used to get up from his bed at 
night on purpose for that. He was a kind soul. 
My God! how kindly and gracious! Many a 


54 The Tales of Chekhov 


mother is not so good to her child as Nikolay was 
tome! Lord, save his soul! ”’ 

Ieronim took hold of the rope, but turned to me 
again at once. 

‘“‘ And such a lofty intelligence, your honour,” he 
said in a vibrating voice. ‘‘ Such a sweet and har- 
monious tongue! Just as they will sing immediately 
at early matins: ‘Oh lovely! oh sweet is Thy 
Voice!’ Besides all other human qualities, he had, 
too, an extraordinary gift!” 

“ What gift?” I asked. 

The monk scrutinized me, and as though he had 
convinced himself that he could trust me with a 
secret, he laughed good-humouredly. 

“He had a gift for writing hymns of praise,” he 
said. ‘‘It was a marvel, sir; you couldn’t call it 
anything else! You will be amazed if I tell you 
about it. Our Father Archimandrite comes from 
Moscow, the Father Sub-Prior studied at the Kazan 
academy, we have wise monks and elders, but, would 
you believe it, no one could write them; while Niko- 
lay, a simple monk, a deacon, had not studied any- 
where, and had not even any outer appearance of it, 
but he wrote them! A marvel! a real marvel!” 
Ieronim clasped his hands and, completely forgetting 
the rope, went on eagerly: 

“The Father Sub-Prior has great difficulty in com- 
posing sermons; when he wrote the history of the 
monastery he worried all the brotherhood and drove 
a dozen times to town, while Nikolay wrote canticles |! 
Hymns of praise! That’s a very different thing 
from a sermon or a history! ” 

‘Ts it difficult to write them? ”’ I asked. 


Easter Eve 55 


“There’s great difficulty!’ Ieronim wagged his 
head. ‘‘ You can do nothing by wisdom and holiness 
if God has not given you the gift. The monks who 
‘don’t understand argue that you only need to know 
the life of the saint for whom you are writing the 
hymn, and to make it harmonize with the other 
hymns of praise. But that’s a mistake, sir. Of 
course, anyone who writes canticles must know the 
life of the saint to perfection, to the least trivial de- 
tail. ‘To be sure, one must make them harmonize 
with the other canticles and know where to begin 
and what to write about. To give you an instance, 
the first response begins everywhere with ‘the 
ehnosen’ ‘or the elect.’ /''s': “Phe first*line must al- 
ways begin with the ‘angel.’ In the canticle of 
praise to Jesus the Most Sweet, if you are interested 
in the subject, it begins like this: ‘Of angels Cre- 
ator and Lord of all powers!’ In the canticle to 
the Holy Mother of God: ‘ Of angels the foremost 
sent down from on high,’ to Nikolay, the Wonder- 
worker — ‘an angel in semblance, though in sub- 
stance a man,’ and so on. Everywhere you begin 
with the angel. Of course, it would be im- 
possible without making them harmonize, but the 
lives of the saints and conformity with the others 
is not what matters; what matters is the beauty and 
sweetness of it. Everything must be harmonious, 
brief and complete. There must be in every line 
softness, graciousness and tenderness; not one word 
should be harsh or rough or unsuitable. It must be 
written so that the worshipper may rejoice at heart 
and weep, while his mind is stirred and he is thrown 
into a tremor. In the canticle to the Holy Mother 


56 The Tales of Chekhov 


are the words: ‘ Rejoice, O Thou too high for 
human thought to reach! Rejoice, O Thou too deep 
for angels’ eyes to fathom!’ In another place in the 
same canticle: ‘ Rejoice, O tree that bearest the 
fair fruit of light that is the food of the faithful! 
Rejoice, O tree of gracious spreading shade, under 
which there is shelter for multitudes! ’” 

Ieronim hid his face in his hands, as though fright- 
ened at something or overcome with shame, and 
shook his head. 

“Tree that bearest the fair fruit of light . 
tree of gracious spreading shade, . . .” he muttered. 
“To think that a man should find one like those! 
Such a power is a gift from God! For brevity he 
packs many thoughts into one phrase, and how 
smooth and complete it all is! ‘ Light-radiating 
torch to all that be . . .’ comes in the canticle to 
Jesus the Most Sweet. ‘ Light-radiating!’ There 
is no such word in conversation or in books, but you 
see he invented it, he found it in his mind! Apart 
from the smoothness and grandeur of language, sir, 
every line must be beautified in every way; there 
must be flowers and lightning and wind and sun and 
all the objects of the visible world. And every ex- 
clamation ought to be put so as to be smooth and 
easy for the ear. ‘ Rejoice, thou flower of heavenly 
growth!’ comes in the hymn to Nikolay the Wonder- 
worker. It’s not simply ‘heavenly flower,’ but 
‘flower of heavenly growth.’ It’s smoother so and 
sweet to the ear. ‘That was just as Nikolay wrote 
it! exactly like that! I can’t tell you how he used to 
write!” 

‘Well, in that case it is a pity he is dead,” I 


Easter Eve 57 


said; ‘but let us get on, father, or we shall be 
Tate... 

Ieronim started and ran to the rope; they were 
beginning to peal all the bells. Probably the pro- 
cession was already going on near the monastery, for 
all the dark space behind the tar barrels was now 
dotted with moving lights. 

‘“ Did Nikolay print his hymns?’ I asked Ieronim. 

‘ How could he print them?” he sighed. “ And, 
indeed, it would be strange to print them. What 
would be the object? No one in the monastery takes 
any interest in them. They don’t like them. ‘They 
knew Nikolay wrote them, but they let it pass un- 
noticed. No one esteems new writings nowadays, 
Site 17 

‘Were they prejudiced against him?” 

“Yes, indeed. If Nikolay had been an elder per- 
haps the brethren would have been interested, but he 
wasn’t forty, you know. There were some who 
laughed and even thought his writing a sin.” 

“What did he write them for?” 

‘Chiefly for his own comfort. Of all the broth- 
erhood, I was the only one who read his hymns. I 
used to go to him in secret, that no one else might 
know of it, and he was glad that I took an interest 
in them. He would embrace me, stroke my head, 
speak to me in caressing words as to a little child. 
He would shut his cell, make me sit down beside him, 
and begin to. read. 1...” 

Ieronim left the rope and came up to me. 

‘We were dear friends in a way,” he whispered, 
looking at me with shining eyes. ‘‘ Where he went 
I would go. If I were not there he would miss me. 


58 The Tales of Chekhov 


And he cared more for me than for anyone, and all 
because I used to weep over his hymns. It makes 
me sad toremember. Now I feel just like an orphan 
or a widow. You know, in our monastery they are 
all good people, kind and pious, but . . . there is no 
one with softness and refinement, they are just like 
peasants. They all speak loudly, and tramp heavily 
when they walk; they are noisy, they clear their 
throats, but Nikolay always talked softly, caress- 
ingly, and if he noticed that anyone was asleep or 
praying he would slip by like a fly or a gnat. His 
face was tender, compassionate. . . .” 

Ieronim heaved a deep sigh and took hold of the 
rope again. We were by now approaching the bank. 
We floated straight out of the darkness and stillness 
of the river into an enchanted realm, full of stifling 
smoke, crackling lights and uproar. By now one 
could distinctly see people moving near the tar 
barrels. The flickering of the lights gave a strange, 
almost fantastic, expression to their figures and red 
faces. From time to time one caught among the 
heads and faces a glimpse of a horse’s head motion- 
less as though cast in copper. 

‘They'll begin singing the Easter hymn directly, 

’ said Ieronim, ‘‘ and Nikolay is gone; there is 
no one to appreciate it... . There was nothing 
written dearer to him than that hymn. He used to 
take in every word! You'll be there, sir, so notice 
what is sung; it takes your breath away!” 

‘’ Won’t you be in church, then? ”’ 

» byeantt 9.0.00 P have ‘te! work@therferry ie oe 

‘ But won't they relieve you? ” 

“IT don’t know. ... I ought to have been re- 


” 


Easter Eve 59 


lieved at eight; but, as you see, they don’t come! .. . 
And I must own I should have liked to be in the 
ehurcn: 

“Are you a monk?” 

mehes......-) thatis, L.am-ailay brother.’ 

The ferry ran into the bank and stopped. I thrust 
a five kopeck piece into Ieronim’s hand for taking me 
across, and jumped on land. Immediately a cart 
with a boy and a sleeping woman in it drove creaking 
onto the ferry. Jeronim, with a faint glow from the 
lights on his figure, pressed on the rope, bent down to 
it, and started the ferry back... . 

I took a few steps through mud, but a little farther 
walked on a soft freshly trodden path. This path 
led to the dark monastery gates, that looked like a 
cavern through a cloud of smoke, through a dis- 
orderly crowd of people, unharnessed horses, carts 
and chaises. All this crowd was rattling, snorting, 
laughing, and the crimson light and wavering 
shadows from the smoke flickered over it all. . .. 
A perfect chaos! And in this subbub the people yet 
found room to load a little cannon and to sell cakes. 
There was no less commotion on the other side of the 
wall in the monastery precincts, but there was more 
regard for decorum and order. Here there was a 
smell of juniper and incense. They talked loudly, 
but there was no sound of laughter or snorting. 
Near the tombstones and crosses people pressed close 
to one another with Easter cakes and bundles in their 
arms. Apparently many had come from a long dis- 
tance for their cakes to be blessed and now were 
exhausted. Young lay brothers, making a metallic 
sound with their boots, ran busily along the iron slabs 


60 The Tales of Chekhov 


that paved the way from the monastery gates to 
the church door. They were busy and shouting on 
the belfry, too. 

‘What a restless night!” I thought. “ How 
mice. 

One was tempted to see the same unrest and sleep- 
lessness in all nature, from the night darkness to the 
iron slabs, the crosses on the tombs and the trees 
under which the people were moving to and fro. 
But nowhere was the excitement and restlessness so 
marked as in the church. An unceasing struggle 
was going on in the entrance between the inflowing 
stream and the outflowing stream. Some were going 
in, others going out and soon coming back again to 
stand still for a little and begin moving again. 
People were scurrying from place to place, lounging 
about as though they were looking for something. 
The stream flowed from the entrance all round the 
church, disturbing even the front rows, where per- 
sons of weight and dignity were standing. There 
could be no thought of concentrated prayer. There 
were no prayers at all, but a sort of continuous, child- 
ishly irresponsible joy, seeking a pretext to break out 
and vent itself in some movement, even in senseless 
jostling and shoving. 

The same unaccustomed movement is striking in 
the Easter service itself. The altar gates are flung 
wide open, thick clouds of incense float in the air 
near the candelabra; wherever one looks there are 
lights, the gleam and splutter of candles... . 
There is no reading; restless and light-hearted sing- 
ing goes on to the end without ceasing. After each 
hymn the clergy change their vestments and come out 


Easter Eve 61 


to burn incense, which is repeated every ten min- 
utes. 

I had no sooner taken a place, when a wave rushed 
from in front and forced me back. A tall thick-set 
deacon walked before me with a long red candle; the 
grey-headed archimandrite in his golden mitre hur- 
ried after him with the censer. When they had 
vanished from sight the crowd squeezed me back to 
my former position. But ten minutes had not passed 
before a new wave burst on me, and again the deacon 
appeared. ‘This time he was followed by the Father 
Sub-Prior, the man who, as Ieronim had told me, 
was writing the history of the monastery. 

As I mingled with the crowd and caught the in- 
fection of the universal joyful excitement, I felt un- 
bearably sore on Ieronim’s account. Why did they 
not send someone to relieve him? Why could not 
someone of less feeling and less susceptibility go on 
the ferry? ‘‘ Lift up thine eyes, O Sion, and look 
around,’ they sang in the choir, “‘ for thy children 
have come to thee as to a beacon of divine light from 
north and south, and from east and from the 
ere Aciss!: 

I looked at the faces; they all had a lively expres- 
sion of triumph, but not one was listening to what 
was being sung and taking it in, and not one was 
“holding his breath.” Why was not Ieronim re- 
leased? I could fancy Ieronim standing meekly 
somewhere by the wall, bending forward and hun- 
grily drinking in the beauty of the holy phrase. All 
this that glided by the ears of people standing by 
me he would have eagerly drunk in with his delicately 
sensitive soul, and would have been spell-bound to 


62 The Tales of Chekhov 


ecstasy, to holding his breath, and there would not 
have been a man happier than he in all the church. 
Now he was plying to and fro over the dark river 
and grieving for his dead friend and brother. 

The wave surged back. A stout smiling monk, 
playing with his rosary and looking round behind 
him, squeezed sideways by me, making way for a 
lady in a hat and velvet cloak. A monastery servant 
hurried after the lady, holding a chair over our 
heads. 

I came out of the church. I wanted to have a 
look at the dead Nikolay, the unknown canticle 
writer. I walked about the monastery wall, where 
there was a row of cells, peeped into several windows, 
and, seeing nothing, came back again. I do not 
regret now that I did not see Nikolay; God knows, 
perhaps if I had seen him I should have lost the 
picture my imagination paints for me now. I 
imagine that lovable poetical figure, solitary and not 
understood, who went out at nights to call to Ieronim 
over the water, and filled his hymns with flowers, 
stars and sunbeams, as a pale timid man with soft, 
mild, melancholy features. His eyes must have 
shone, not only with intelligence, but with kindly 
tenderness and that hardly restrained childlike en- 
thusiasm which I could hear in Ieronim’s voice when 
he quoted to me passages from the hymns. 

When we came out of church after mass it was 
no longer night. The morning was _ beginning. 
The stars had gone out and the sky was a morose 
greyish blue. The iron slabs, the tombstones and 
the buds on the trees were covered.with dew. ‘There 


Easter Eve 63 


was a sharp freshness in the air. Outside the pre- 
cincts I did not find the same animated scene as I 
had beheld in the night. Horses and men looked 
exhausted, drowsy, scarcely moved, while nothing 
was left of the tar barrels but heaps of black ash. 
When anyone is exhausted and sleepy he fancies that 
nature, too, is in the same condition. It seemed to 
me that the trees and the young grass were asleep. 
It seemed as though even the bells were not pealing 
so loudly and gaily as at night. ‘The restlessness was 
over, and of the excitement nothing was left but a 
pleasant weariness, a longing for sleep and warmth. 

Now I could see both banks of the river; a faint 
mist hovered over it in shifting masses. There was 
a harsh cold breath from the water. When I 
jumped on to the ferry, a chaise and some two dozen 
men and women were standing on it already. The 
rope, wet and as I fancied drowsy, stretched far away 
across the broad river and in places disappeared in 
the white mist. 

“Christ is risen! Is there no one else?” asked a 
soft voice. 

I recognized the voice of Ieronim. There was no 
darkness now to hinder me from seeing the monk. 
He was a tall narrow-shouldered man of five-and- 
thirty, with large rounded features, with half-closed 
listless-looking eyes and an unkempt wedge-shaped | 
beard. He had an extraordinarily sad and ex- 
hausted look. 

“They have not relieved you yet?’ I asked in 
surprise. 

‘“Me?” he answered, turning to me his chilled 


64 The Tales of Chekhov 


and dewy face with a smile. ‘‘ There is no one to 
take my place now till morning. They’ll all be going 
to the Father Archimandrite’s to break the fast di- 
Rectly.": 

With the help of a little peasant in a hat of reddish 
fur that looked like the little wooden tubs in which 
honey is sold, he threw his weight on the rope; they 
gasped simultaneously, and the ferry started. 

We floated across, disturbing on the way the lazily 
rising mist. Everyone was silent. Ieronim worked 
mechanically with one hand. He slowly passed his 
mild lustreless eyes over us; then his glance rested on 
the rosy face of a young merchant’s wife with black 
eyebrows, who was standing on the ferry beside me 
silently shrinking from the mist that wrapped her 
about. He did not take his eyes off her face all the 
way. 

There was little that was masculine in that pro- 
longed gaze. It seemed to me that Ieronim was 
looking in the woman’s face for the soft and tender 
features of his dead friend. 


A NIGHTMARE 


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A NIGHTMARE 


KUNIN, a young man of thirty, who was a permanent 
member of the Rural Board, on returning from 
Petersburg to his district, Borisovo, immediately sent 
a mounted messenger to Sinkino, for the priest there, 
Father Yakov Smirnov. 

Five hours later Father Yakov appeared. 

“Very glad to make your acquaintance,” said 
Kunin, meeting him in the entry. ‘I’ve been living 
and serving here for a year; it seems as though we 
ought to have been acquainted before. You are very 
welcome! But... how young you are!” Kunin 
added in surprise. ‘“‘ What is your age?” 

‘Twenty-eight, . . .” said Father Yakov, faintly 
pressing Kunin’s outstretched hand, and for some 
reason turning crimson. 

Kunin led his visitor into his study and began look- 
ing at him more attentively. 

‘What an uncouth womanish face!” he thought. 

There certainly was a good deal that was woman- 
ish in Father Yakov’s face: the turned-up nose, the 
bright red cheeks, and the large grey-blue eyes with 
scanty, scarcely perceptible eye-brows. His long 
reddish hair, smooth and dry, hung down in straight 
tails on to his shoulders. The hair on his upper 
lip was only just beginning to form into a real mascu- 
line moustache, while his little beard belonged to 


that class of good-for-nothing beards which among 
67 


68 The Tales of Chekhov 


divinity students are for some reason called “ tick- 
lers.”’ It was scanty and extremely transparent; it 
could not have been stroked or combed, it could only 
have been pinched. . . . All these scanty decora- 
tions were put on unevenly in tufts, as though Father 
Yakov, thinking to dress up as a priest and beginning 
to gum on the beard, had been interrupted halfway 
through. He had on a cassock, the colour of weak 
coffee with chicory in it, with big patches on both 
elbows. 

‘“A queer type,” thought Kunin, looking at his 
muddy skirts. ‘‘ Comes to the house for the first 
time and can’t dress decently. 

‘Sit down, Father,” he began more carelessly 
than cordially, as he moved an easy-chair to the table. 
‘Sit down, I beg you.” 

Father Yakov coughed into his fist, sank awk- 
wardly on to the edge of the chair, and laid his open 
hands on his knees. With his short figure, his nar- 
row chest, his red and perspiring face, he made from 
the first moment a most unpleasant impression on 
Kunin. The latter could never have imagined that 
there were such undignified and pitiful-looking priests 
in Russia; and in Father Yakov’s attitude, in the way 
he held his hands on his knees and sat on the very 
edge of his chair, he saw a lack of dignity and even a 
shade of servility. 

‘‘T have invited you on business, Father. . . . 
Kunin began, sinking back in his low chair. ‘‘ It ha 
fallen to my lot to perform the agreeable duty of 
helping you in one of your useful undertakings. . . . 
On coming back from Petersburg, I found on my — 
table a letter from the Marshal of Nobility. Yegor 


oP) 


A Nightmare 69 


Dmitrevitch suggests that I should take under my 
supervision the church parish school which is being 
opened in Sinkino. I shall be very glad to, Father, 
with all my heart. . . . More than that, I accept 
the proposition with enthusiasm.” 

Kunin got up and walked about the study. 

‘Of course, both Yegor Dmitrevitch and probably 
you, too, are aware that I have not great funds at my 
disposal. My estate is mortgaged, and I live exclu- 
sively on my salary as the permanent member. So 
that you cannot reckon on very much assistance, but I 
will do all that is in my power. . . . And when are 
you thinking of opening the school, Father?” 

‘“When we have the money, ...’ answered 
Father Yakov. 

‘You have some funds at your disposal already?” 

“ Scarcely any. . . . The peasants settled at their 
meeting that they would pay, every man of them, 
thirty kopecks a year; but that’s only a promise, you 
know! And for the first beginning we should need 
at least two hundred roubles. . . .” 

“ M’yes. . . . Unhappily, I have not that sum 
now,’ said Kunin witha sigh. ‘I spent all I had on 
my tour and got into debt, too. Let us try and 
think of some plan together.” 

Kunin began planning aloud. He explained his 
views and watched Father Yakov’s face, seeking signs 
of agreement or approval in it. But the face was 
apathetic and immobile, and expressed nothing but 
constrained shyness and uneasiness. Looking at it, 
one might have supposed that Kunin was talking of 
matters so abstruse that Father Yakov did not under- 
stand and only listened from good manners, and was 


70 The Tales of Chekhov 


at the same time afraid of being detected in his fail- 
ure to understand. 

“The fellow is not one of the brightest, that’s 
evident . . .” thought Kunin. ‘“ He’s rather shy 
and much too stupid.” 

Father Yakov revived somewhat and even smiled 
only when the footman came into the study bringing 
in two glasses of tea on a tray and a cake-basket full 
of biscuits. He took his glass and began drinking at 
once. 

‘“ Shouldn*t we write to the bishop?’ Kunin went 
on, meditating aloud. ‘‘ To be precise, you know, 
it is not we, not the Zemstvo, but the higher ecclesi- 
astical authorities, who have raised the question of 
the church parish schools. They ought really to 
apportion the funds. I ftemember I read that a sum 
of money had been set aside for the purpose. Do 
you know nothing about it? ” 

Father Yakov was so absorbed in drinking tea that 
he did not answer this question at once. He lifted 
his grey-blue eyes to Kunin, thought a moment, and 
as though recalling his question, he shook his head 
in the negative. An expression of pleasure and of 
the most ordinary prosaic appetite overspread his 
face from ear to ear. He drank and smacked his 
lips over every gulp. When he had drunk it to the 
very last drop, he put his glass on the table, then took 
his glass back again, looked at the bottom of it, 
then put it back again. The expression of pleasure 
faded from his face. . . . Then Kunin saw his vis- 
itor take a biscuit from the cake-basket, nibble a lit- 
tle bit off it, then turn it over in his hand and hur- 
riedly stick it in his pocket. 


A Nightmare RY 


“Well, that’s not at all clerical!’ thought Kunin, 
shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. ‘* What 
is it, priestly greed or childishness? ” 

After giving his visitor another glass of tea and 
seeing him to the entry, Kunin lay down on the sofa 
and abandoned himself to the unpleasant feeling in- 
duced in him by the visit of Father Yakov. 

‘“What a strange wild creature!” he thought. 
“Dirty, untidy, coarse, stupid, and probably he 
drinks. . . . My God, and that’s a priest, a spiritual 
father! That’s a teacher of the people! I can 
fancy the irony there must be in the deacon’s face 
when before every mass he booms out: ‘ Thy bless- 
ing, Reverend Father!’ A fine reverend Father! 
A reverend Father without a grain of dignity or 
_ breeding, hiding biscuits in his pocket like a school- 
boy. . . . Fie! Good Lord, where were the bish- 
op’s eyes when he ordained a man like that? What 
can he think of the people if he gives them a teacher 
like that? One wants people here who .. .” 

And Kunin thought what Russian priests ought to 
be like. 

‘If I were a priest, for instance. . . . An edu- 
cated priest fond of his work might do a great deal. 
. . . | should have had the school opened long ago. 
And the sermons? If the priest is sincere and is in- 
spired by love for his work, what wonderful rousing 
sermons he might give!” 

Kunin shut his eyes and began mentally composing 
a sermon. A little later he sat down to the table 
and rapidly began writing. 

‘ Tll give it to that red-haired fellow; let him read 
i in’ church, . . .’ he thought, 


72 The Tales of Chekhov 


The following Sunday Kunin drove over to Sink- 
ino in the morning to settle the question of the school, 
and while he was there to make acquaintance with 
the church of which he was a parishioner. In spite of 
the awful state of the roads, it was a glorious morn- 
ing. The sun was shining brightly and cleaving with 
its rays the layers of white snow still lingering here 
and there. The snow as it took leave of the earth 
glittered with such diamonds that it hurt the eyes 
to look, while the young winter corn was hastily 
thrusting up its green beside it. The rooks floated 
with dignity over the fields. A rook would fly, drop 
to earth, and give several hops before standing firmly 
oniies feetsn se 

The wooden church up to which Kunin drove was 
old and grey; the columns of the porch had once 
been painted white, but the colour had now com- 
pletely peeled off, and they looked like two ungainly 
shafts. The ikon over the door looked like a dark 
smudged blur. But its poverty touched and soft- 
ened Kunin. Modestly dropping his eyes, he went 
into the church and stood by the door. The service 
had only just begun. An old sacristan, bent into a 
bow, was reading the “‘ Hours ”’ in a hollow indistinct 
tenor. Father Yakov, who conducted the service 
without a deacon, was walking about the church, 
burning incense. Had it not been for the softened 
mood in which Kunin found himself on entering the 
poverty-stricken church, he certainly would have 
smiled at the sight of Father Yakov. The short 
priest was wearing a crumpled and extremely long 
robe of some shabby yellow material; the hem of the 
robe trailed on the ground. 


A Nightmare 73, 
The church was not full. Looking at the parish- 


ioners, Kunin was struck at the first glance by one 
strange circumstance: he saw nothing but old people 
and children. . . . Where were the men of working 
age? Where was the youth and manhood? But 
after he had stood there a little and looked more at- 
tentively at the aged-looking faces, Kunin saw that 
he had mistaken young people for old. He did not, 
however, attach any significance to this little optical 
illusion. 

The church was as cold and grey inside as out- 
side. There was not one spot on the ikons nor on 
the dark brown walls which was not begrimed and 
defaced by time. There were many windows, but 
the general effect of colour was grey, and so it was 
twilight in the church. 

‘“ Anyone pure in soul can pray here very well,” 
thought Kunin. ‘“‘ Just as in St. Peter’s in Rome one 
is impressed by grandeur, here one is touched by 
the lowliness and simplicity.” 

But his devout mood vanished like smoke as soon 
as Father Yakov went up to the altar and began 
mass. Being still young and having come straight 
from the seminary bench to the priesthood, Father 
Yakov had not yet formed a set manner of celebrat- 
ing the service. As he read he seemed to be vacil- 
lating between a high tenor and a thin bass; he bowed 
clumsily, walked quickly, and opened and shut the 
gates abruptly. . .. The old sacristan, evidently 
deaf and ailing, did not hear the prayers very dis- 
tinctly, and this very often led to slight misunder- 
standings. Before Father Yakov had time to finish 
what he had to say, the sacristan began chanting his 


74. The Tales of Chekhov 


response, or else long after Father Yakov had fin- 
ished the old man would be straining his ears, listen- 
ing in the direction of the altar and saying nothing 
till his skirt was pulled. The old man had a sickly 
hollow voice and an asthmatic quavering lisp. .. . 
The complete lack of dignity and decorum was em- 
phasized by a very small boy who seconded the 
sacristan and whose head was hardly visible over 
the railing of the choir. The boy sang in a shrill 
falsetto and seemed to be trying to avoid singing in 
tune. Kunin stayed a little while, listened and went 
out for a smoke. He was disappointed, and looked 
at the grey church almost with dislike. 

‘They complain of the decline of religious feel- 
ing among the people, . . .” he sighed. “I should 
rather think so! They'd better foist a few more 
priests like this one on them!” 

Kunin went back into the church three times, and 
each time he felt a great temptation to get out into 
the open air again. Waiting till the end of the mass, 
he went to Father Yakov’s. The priest’s house did 
not differ outwardly from the peasants’ huts, but the 
thatch lay more smoothly on the roof and there were 
little white curtains in the windows. Father Yakov 
led Kunin into a light little room with a clay floor and 
walls covered with cheap paper; in spite of some 
painful efforts towards luxury in the way of photo- 
graphs in frames, and a clock with a pair of scissors 
hanging on the weight the furnishing of the room im- 
pressed him by its scantiness. Looking at the furni- 
ture, one might have supposed that Father Yakov 
had gone from house to house and collected it in bits; 
in one place they had given him a round three- 


A Nightmare 75 


legged table, in another a stool, in a third a chair 
with a back bent violently backwards; in a fourth a 
chair with an upright back, but the seat smashed in; 
while in a fifth they had been liberal and given him 
a semblance of a sofa with a flat back and a lattice- 
work seat. This semblance had been painted dark 
red and smelt strongly of paint. Kunin meant at 
first to sit down.on one of the chairs, but on second 
thought he sat down on the stool. 

“this is the first time you have been to our 
church?” asked Father Yakov, hanging his hat on a 
huge misshapen nail. 

‘Yes, it is. I tell you what, Father, before we 
begin on business, will you give me some tea? My 
soul is parched.” 

Father Yakov blinked, gasped, and went behind 
the partition wall. There was a sound of whisper- 
ing. 

‘With his wife, I suppose,” thought Kunin; “ it 
would be interesting to see what the red-headed fel- 
low’s wife is like.” 

A little later Father Yakov came back, red and 
perspiring, and with an effort to smile, sat down on 
the edge of the sofa. 

“They will heat the samovar directly,” he said, 
without looking at his visitor. 

‘““ My goodness, they have not heated the samovar 
yet!’’ Kunin thought with horror. ‘‘ A nice time 
we shall have to wait.” 

‘“‘T have brought you,” he said, ‘‘ the rough draft 
of the letter I have written to the bishop. I'll read 
it after tea; perhaps you may find something to 


add. 


76 The Tales of Chekhov 


“Very well.” 

A silence followed. Father Yakov threw furtive 
glances at the partition wall, smoothed his hair, and 
blew his nose. 

‘“‘ It’s wonderful weather, . . .”’ he said. 

“Yes. I read an interesting thing yesterday, 

. the Volsky Zemstvo have decided to give their 
schools to the clergy, that’s typical.” 

Kunin got up, and pacing up and down the clay 
floor, began to give expression to his reflections. 

‘That would be all right,” he said, “if only the 
clergy were equal to their high calling and recognized 
their tasks. I am so unfortunate as to know priests 
whose standard of culture and whose moral quali- 
ties make them hardly fit to be army secretaries, much 
less priests. You will agree that a bad teacher does 
far less harm than a bad priest.” 

Kunin glanced at Father Yakov; he was sitting 
bent up, thinking intently about something and ap- 
parently not listening to his visitor. 

‘“Yasha, come here!’’ a woman’s voice called 
from behind the partition. Father Yakov started 
and went out. Again a whispering began. 

Kunin felt a pang of longing for tea. 

‘“‘ No; it’s no use my waiting for tea here,” he 
thought, looking at his watch. ‘‘ Besides, I fancy I 
am not altogether a welcome visitor. My host has 
not deigned to say one word to me; he simply sits and 
blinks.” 

Kunin took up his hat, waited for Father Yakov 
to return, and said good-bye to him. 

‘‘T have simply wasted the morning,” he thought 
wrathfully on the way home. “ The blockhead! 


A Nightmare via 


The dummy! He cares no more about the school 
than I about last year’s snow. . . . No, I shall never 
get anything done with him! We are bound to fail! 
If the Marshal knew what the priest here was like, 
he wouldn’t be in such a hurry to talk about a school. 
We ought first to try and get a decent priest, and 
then think about the school.” 

By now Kunin almost hated Father Yakov. The 
man, his pitiful, grotesque figure in the long crum- 
pled robe, his womanish face, his manner of officiat- 
ing, his way of life and his formal restrained respect- 
fulness, wounded the tiny relic of religious feeling 
which was stored away in a warm corner of Kunin’s 
heart together with his nurse’s other fairy tales. 
The coldness and lack of attention with which Father 
Yakov had met Kunin’s warm and sincere interest 
in what was the priest’s own work was hard for the 
former’s vanity to endure. . . . 

On the evening of the same day Kunin spent a long 
time walking about his rooms and thinking. Then 
he sat down to the table resolutely and wrote a letter 
to the bishop. After asking for money and a bless- 
ing for the school, he set forth genuinely, like a son, 
his opinion of the priest at Sinkino. ‘‘ He is young,” 
he wrote, “‘ insufficiently educated, leads, I fancy, an 
intemperate life, and altogether fails to satisfy the 
ideals which the Russian people have in the course 
of centuries formed of what a pastor should be.” 

After writing this letter Kunin heaved a deep sigh, 
and went to bed with the consciousness that he had 
done a good deed. 

On Monday morning, while he was still in bed, he 
was informed that Father Yakov had arrived. He 


78 The Tales of Chekhov 


did not want to get up, and instructed the servant to 
say he was not at home. On Tuesday he went away 
to a sitting of the Board, and when he returned on 
Saturday he was told by the servants that Father 
Yakov had called every day in his absence. 

‘“ He liked my biscuits, it seems,” he thought. 

Towards evening on Sunday Father Yakov ar- 
rived. This time not only his skirts, but even his 
hat, was bespattered with mud. Just as on his first 
visit, he was hot and perspiring, and sat down on 
the edge of his chair as he had done then. Kunin 
determined not to talk about the school — not to 
cast pearls. 

‘“T have brought you a list of books for the school, 
Pavel Mihailovitch, . . .” Father Yakov began. 

“Thank you.” 

But everything showed that Father Yakov had 
come for something else besides the list. His whole 
figure was expressive of extreme embarrassment, and 
at the same time there was a look of determination 
upon his face, as on the face of a man suddenly 
inspired by an idea. He struggled to say some- 
thing important, absolutely necessary, and strove to 
overcome his timidity. 

‘Why is he dumb?” Kunin thought wrathfully. 
‘ He’s settled himself comfortably! I haven't time 
to be bothered with him.” 

To smooth over the awkwardness of his silence 
and to conceal the struggle going on within him, the 
priest began to smile constrainedly, and this slow 
smile, wrung out on his red perspiring face, and out 
of keeping with the fixed look in his grey-blue eyes, 
made Kunin turn away. He felt moved to repulsion. 


A Nightmare 79 


‘Excuse me, Father, I have to go out,” he said. 

Father Yakov started like a man asleep who has 
been struck a blow, and, still smiling, began in his con- 
fusion wrapping round him the skirts of his cassock. 
In spite of his repulsion for the man, Kunin felt 
suddenly sorry for him, and he wanted to soften his 
cruelty. 

‘“ Please come another time, Father,” he said, 
‘and before we part I want to ask youa favour. I 
was somehow inspired to write two sermons the 
other day. . . . I will give them to you to look at. 
If they are suitable, use them.” 

‘“ Very good,” said Father Yakov, laying his open 
hand on Kunin’s sermons which were lying on the 
tables) I will'takeithem.” 

After standing a little, hesitating and still wrap- 
ping his cassock round him, he suddenly gave up the 
effort to smile and lifted his head resolutely. 

‘Pavel Mihailovitch,” he said, evidently trying 
to speak loudly and distinctly. 

‘“What can I do for you?” 

paihave heardithabyou 4 io. ‘er <3) .thavedis- 
missed your secretary, and . . . and are looking for 
AME Wa@Mes \.) 2). 

oifes; 1 am. .). . Why,’ have: you someone’ to 
recommend?” 

apie. «. ery-nyoursee . Rtas Could’ you 
not give the post to me?” 

“Why, are you giving up the Church?” said 
Kunin in amazement. 

“No, no,” Father Yakov brought out quickly, 
for some reason turning pale and trembling all over. 


“God forbid! If you feel doubtful, then never 


80 The Tales of Chekhov 


mind, never mind. You see, I could do the work 
between whiles, . . . so as to increase my income. 
. . . Never mind, don’t disturb yourself!” 

“Hm! (.\.; «;yoursmmcome: ...... (But you! know, 
I only pay my secretary twenty roubles a month.” 

‘““Good heavens! I would take ten,” whispered 
Father Yakov, looking about him. ‘‘ Ten would be 
enough! You .. . you are astonished, and every- 
one is astonished. ‘The greedy priest, the grasping 
priest, what does he do with his money? I feel my- 


self I am greedy, . . . and I blame myself, I con- 
demn myself. . . . I am ashamed to look people in 
the face. . . . I tell you on my conscience, Pavel 


Mihailovitch. . . . I call the God of truth to wit- 
MESSeieaet: 

Father Yakov took breath and went on: 

“On the way here I prepared a regular confession 
to make you, but . . . I’ve forgotten it all; I can- 
not find a word now. I get a hundred and fifty 
roubles a year from my parish, and everyone won- 
ders what I do with the money. . . . But I’ll explain 
itvalliitruly. . . «pay forty :roubles‘a) yeanitormme 
clerical school for my brother Pyotr. He has every- 
thing found there, except that I have to provide pens 
and paper.” 

‘Oh, I believe you; I believe you! But what's 
the object of all this?” said Kunin, with a wave of 
the hand, feeling terribly oppressed by this outburst 
of confidence on the part of his visitor, and not know- 
ing how to get away from the tearful gleam in his 
eyes. 

‘Then I have not yet paid up all that I owe 
to the consistory for my place here. They charged 


A Nightmare 81 


me two hundred roubles for the living, and I was to 
pay ten roubles a month. . . . You can judge what 
is left! And, besides, I must allow Father Avraamy 
at least three roubles a month.” 

“What Father Avraamy?” 

“Father Avraamy who was priest at Sinkino be- 
fore I came. He was deprived of the living on 
account of . . . his failing, but you know, he is still 
living at Sinkino! He has nowhere to go. There 
is no one to keep him. Though he is old, he must 
have a corner, and food and clothing. I can’t let 
him go begging on the roads in his position! It 
would be on my conscience if anything happened! It 
would be my fault! Heis .. . in debt all round; 
but, you see, I am to blame for not paying for him.” 

Father Yakov started up from his seat and, looking 
frantically at the floor, strode up and down the room. 

“My God, my God!” he muttered, raising 
his hands and dropping them again. ‘“ Lord, save 
us and have mercy uponus! Why did you take such 
a calling on yourself if you have so little faith and 
no strength? Thereisnoendto my despair! Save 
me, Queen of Heaven! ”’ 

‘Calm yourself, Father,” said Kunin. 

“I am worn out with hunger, Pavel Mihailo- 
vitch,” Father Yakov went on. ‘‘ Generously for- 
give me, but I am at the end of my strength. .. . I 
know if I were to beg and to bow down, everyone 
would help, but ...I1 cannot! I am ashamed. 
How can I beg of the peasants? You are on the 
Board here, so you know. . . . How can one beg of 
a beggar? And to beg of richer people, of land- 
owners, Icannot! Ihave pride! Iam ashamed!”’ 


82 The Tales of Chekhov 


Father Yakov waved his hand, and nervously 
scratched his head with both hands. 

‘““T am ashamed! My God, I am ashamed! I 
am proud and can’t bear people to see my poverty! 
When you visited me, Pavel Mihailovitch, I had no 
tea in the house! There wasn’t a pinch of it, and 
you know it was pride prevented me from telling 
you! Jam ashamed of my clothes, of these patches 


here. . . . 1 am ashamed of my vestments, of being 
hungry. . . . And is it seemly for a priest to be 
proud?” 


Father Yakov stood still in the middle of the 
study, and, as though he did not notice Kunin’s pres- 
ence, began reasoning with himself. 

‘“ Well, supposing I endure hunger and disgrace 
— but, my God, I have a wife! I took her from 
a good home! She is not used to hard work; she 
is soft; she is used to tea and white bread and sheets 
on her bed. . . . At home she used to play the pi- 
ano. ~... ‘She is: young, (not twenty vyet? = 2 esie 
would like, to be sure, to be smart, to have fun, go 
out to see people. . . . And she is worse off with 
me than any cook; she is ashamed to show herself 
in the street. My God, my God! Her only treat 
is when I bring an apple or some biscuit from a 
Wasits wheel) 

Father Yakov scratched his head again with both 
hands. 

‘“ And it makes us feel not love but pity for each 
other. . . . I cannot look at her without compas- 
sion! And the things that happen in this life, O 
Lord! Such things that people would not believe 


A Nightmare 83 


them if they saw them in the newspaper. . . . And 
when will there be an end to it all!” 

“Hush, Father!’’ Kunin almost shouted, fright- 
ened at his tone. ‘‘ Why take such a gloomy view 
Bi dife? 

“Generously forgive me, Pavel Mihailovitch 
. . .’ muttered Father Yakov as though he were 
drunk. ‘‘ Forgive me, all this . . . doesn’t matter, 
and don’t take any notice of it. . . . Only I do blame 
nyself, and always shall blame myself . . . always.” 

Father Yakov looked about him and began whis- 
pering: 

‘One morning early I was going from Sinkino to 
Lutchkovo; I saw a woman standing on the river 


bank, doing something. . . . I went up close and 
could not believe my eyes. . . . It was horrible! 
The wife of the doctor, Ivan Sergeitch, was sitting 
there washing her linen. ... A doctor’s wife, 


brought up at a select boarding-school! She had 
got up, you see, early and gone half a mile from 
the village that people should not see her. . . . She 
couldn’t get over her pride! When she saw that I 
was near her and noticed her poverty, she turned red 
all over. . . . I was flustered —I was frightened, 
and ran up to help her, but she hid her linen from 
me; she was afraid I should see her ragged 
chemises. |): ..”” 

‘All this is positively incredible,” said Kunin, sit- 
ting down and looking almost with horror at Father 
Yakov’s pale face. 

“Incredible it is! It’s a thing that has never 
been, Pavel Mihailovitch, that a doctor’s wife should 


”) 


84 The Tales of Chekhov 


be rinsing the linen in the river! Such a thing does 
not happen in any country! As her pastor and spir- 
itual father, I ought not to allow it, but what can 
I do? What? Why, I am always trying to get 
treated by her husband for nothing myself! It is 
true that, as you say, it is all incredible! One can 
hardly believe one’s eyes. During Mass, you know, 
when I look out from the altar and see my congre- 
gation, Avraamy starving, and my wife, and think 
of the doctor’s wife — how blue her hands were from 
the cold water — would you believe it, I forget my- 
self and stand senseless like a fool, until the sacristan 
callsiteme i>. — lite aywtul!”’ 

Father Yakov began walking about again. 

“Lord Jesus!’ he said, waving his hands, “‘ holy 
Saints!) l.ican’t! officiate properly: . 1 bletenyer 
talk to me about the school, and I sit like a dummy 
and don’t understand a word, and think of nothing 
but food. '.!.«:) ven) before’ the valtars ebame 

. what am I doing?” Father Yakov pulled 
himself up suddenly.“ You want to go out. For- 
give me;\1 méant nothing) |: .. Eixcusen saps. 

Kunin shook hands with Father Yakoy without 
speaking, saw him into the hall, and going back to 
his study, stood at the window. He saw Father 
Yakov go out of the house, pull his wide-brimmed 
rusty-looking hat over his eyes, and slowly, bowing 
his head, as though ashamed of his outburst, walk 
along the road. 

‘““T don’t see his horse,” thought Kunin. 

Kunin did not dare to think that the priest had 
come on foot every day to see him; it was five or 
six miles to Sinkino, and the mud on the road was 


A Nightmare 85 


impassable. Further on he saw the coachman An- 
drey and the boy Paramon, jumping over the puddles 
and splashing Father Yakov with mud, run up to him 
for his blessing. Father Yakov took off his hat 
and slowly blessed Andrey, then blessed the boy and 
stroked his head. 

Kunin passed his hand over his eyes, and it seemed 
to him that his hand was moist. He walked away 
from the window and with dim eyes looked round the 
room in which he still seemed to hear the timid dron- 
ing voice. He glanced at the table. Luckily, Fa- 
ther Yakoy, in his haste, had forgotten to take the 
sermons. Kunin rushed up to them, tore them into 
pieces, and with loathing thrust them under the table. 

‘“ And I did not know!” he moaned, sinking on 
tothe sofa. ‘ After being here over a year as mem- 
ber of the Rural Board, Honorary Justice of the 
Peace, member of the School Committee! Blind 
puppet, egregious idiot! JI must make haste and 
help them, I must make haste!” 

He turned from side to side uneasily, pressed his 
temples and racked his brains. 

“On the twentieth I shall get my salary, two 
hundred roubles. . . . On some good pretext | will 
give him some, and some to the doctor’s wife. . . . 
I will ask him to perform a special service here, and 
will get up an illness for the doctor. . . . In that 
way I shan’t wound their pride. And I'll help Fa- 
ther Avraamy too... .” 

He reckoned his money on his fingers, and was 
afraid to own to himself that those two hundred rou- 
bles would hardly be enough for him to pay his 
steward, his servants, the peasant who brought the 


86 The salestarr@ elk haw 


meat. . . . He could not help remembering the re- 
cent past when he was senselessly squandering his 
father’s fortune, when as a puppy of twenty he had 
given expensive fans to prostitutes, had paid ten rou- 
bles a day to Kuzma, his cab-driver, and in his vanity 
had made presents to actresses. Oh, how useful 
those wasted rouble, three rouble, ten rouble notes 
would have been now! 

“Father Avraamy lives on three roubles a 
month!’ thought Kunin. “ Fora rouble the priest’s 
wife could get herself a chemise, and the doctor’s 
wife could hire a washerwoman. But I'll help them, 
anyway! I must help them.” 

Here Kunin suddenly recalled the private informa- 
tion he had sent to the bishop, and he writhed as 
from a sudden draught of cold air. This remem- 
brance filled him with overwhelming shame before 
his inner self and before the unseen truth. 

So had begun and had ended a sincere effort to be 
of public service on the part of a well-intentioned but 
unreflecting and over-comfortable person. 


THE MURDER 


oe Pacey thi iris: 
ris ie Paes eu Es eae ms 
vk he» MAL ae. oe 
Mea ony, eer ne 
hy al ie a 
Pods RS Mame TIA ie 
hc iryear(t. | 4 eae pity 5 Oe oe 
WVitOR sy Watt dG OW ar ae i mei 
Jeane hi! Me ce 


Fil em rn 
HS WAG 
va , 
oe si Ay : 
etal amie 
wy ee ty Wie 





THE MURDER 
I 


THE evening service was being celebrated at Progon- 
naya Station. Before the great ikon, painted in 
glaring colours on a background of gold, stood the 
crowd of railway servants with their wives and chil- 
dren, and also of the timbermen and sawyers who 
worked close to the railway line. All stood in si- 
lence, fascinated by the glare of the lights and the 
howling of the snow-storm which was aimlessly dis- 
porting itself outside, regardless of the fact that it 
was the Eve of the Annunciation. The old priest 
from Vedenyapino conducted the service; the sacris- 
tan and Matvey Terehov were singing. 

Matvey’s face was beaming with delight; he sang 
stretching out his neck as though he wanted to soar 
upwards. He sang tenor and chanted the 
‘‘ Praises? too in a tenor voice with honied sweet- 
ness and persuasiveness. When he sang “ Arch- 
angel Voices,” he waved his arms like a conductor, 
and trying to second the sacristan’s hollow bass with 
his tenor, achieved something extremely complex, 
and from his face it could be seen that he was ex- 
periencing great pleasure. 

At last the service was over, and they all quietly 
dispersed, and it was dark and empty again, and 
there followed that hush which is only known in 

89 


go The Tales of Chekhov 


stations that stand solitary in the open country or in 
the forest when the wind howls and nothing else is 
heard, and when all the emptiness around, all the 
dreariness of life slowly ebbing away is felt. 

Matvey lived not far from the station at his cous- 
in’s tavern. But he did not want to go home. He 
sat down at the refreshment bar and began talking 
to the waiter in a low voice. 

‘“ We had our own choir in the tile factory. And 
I must tell you that though we were only workmen, 
our singing was first-rate, splendid. We were often 
invited to the town, and when the Deputy Bishop, 
Father Ivan, took the service at Trinity Church, the 
bishop’s singers sang in the right choir and we in 
the left. Only they complained in the town that we 
kept the singing on too long: ‘ the factory choir drag 
it out,’ they used to say. It is true we began St. 
Andrey’s prayers and the Praises between six and 
seven, and it was past eleven when we finished, so 
that it was sometimes after midnight when we got 
home to the factory. It was good,” sighed Matvey. 
“Very good it was, indeed, Sergey Nikanoritch! 
But here in my father’s house it is anything but joy- 
ful. The nearest church is four miles away; with 
my weak health I can’t get so far; there are no sing- 
ers there. And there is no peace or quiet in our 
family; day in day out, there is an uproar, scolding, 
uncleanliness; we all eat out of one bowl like peas- 
ants; and there are beetles in the cabbage soup. . . . 
God has not given me health, else I would have gone 
away long ago, Sergey Nikanoritch.”’ 

Matvey Terehov was a middle-aged man about 
forty-five, but he had a look of ill-health; his face 


The Murder Ql 


was wrinkled and his lank, scanty beard was quite 
grey, and that made him seem many years older. 
He spoke in a weak voice, circumspectly, and held his 
chest when he coughed, while his eyes assumed the 
uneasy and anxious look one sees in very apprehen- 
sive people. He never said definitely what was 
wrong with him, but he was fond of describing at 
length how once at the factory he had lifted a heavy 
box and had ruptured himself, and how this had led 
to “the gripes’? and had forced him to give up 
his work in the tile factory and come back to his na- 
tive place; but he could not explain what he meant 
by “the gripes.” 

‘“T must own I am not fond of my cousin,”’ he went 
on, pouring himself out some tea. ‘‘ He is my elder; 
it is a sin to censure him, and [| fear the Lord, but I 
cannot bear it in patience. He is a haughty, surly, 
abusive man; he is the torment of his relations and 
workmen, and constantly out of humour. Last Sun- 
day I asked him in an amiable way, ‘ Brother, let 
us go to Pahomovo for the Mass!’ but he said, ‘I 
am not going; the priest there is a gambler; ’ and he 
would not come here to-day because, he said, the 
priest from Vedenyapino smokes and drinks vodka. 
He doesn’t like the clergy! He reads Mass himself 
and the Hours and the Vespers, while his sister acts 
as sacristan; he says, ‘ Let us pray unto the Lord’! 
and she, in a thin little voice like a turkey-hen, ‘ Lord, 
have mercy upon us! ...’ It’s a sin, that’s what 
itis. Every day I say to him, ‘ Think what you are 
doing, brother! Repent, brother!’ and he takes no 
notice.” 

Sergey Nikanoritch, the waiter, poured out five 


g2 The Tales of Chekhov 


glasses of tea and carried them on a tray to the wait- 
ing room. He had scarcely gone in when there was 
a shout: 

‘Ts that the way to serve it, pig’s face? You 
don’t know how to wait!” 

It was the voice of the station-master. There 
was a timid mutter, then again a harsh and angry 
shout: 

‘ Get along! ”’ 

The waiter came back, greatly crestfallen. 

“There was a time when I gave satisfaction to 
counts and princes,” he said in a low voice; “ but 
now I don’t know how to serve tea. . . . He called 
me names before the priest and the ladies! ” 

The waiter, Sergey Nikanoritch, had once had 
money of his own, and had kept a buffet at a first- 
class station, which was a junction in the principal 
town of a province. ‘There he had worn a swallow- 
tail coat and a gold chain. But things had gone ill 
with him; he had squandered all his own money over 
expensive fittings and service; he had been robbed by 
his staff, and, getting gradually into difficulties, had 
moved to another station less bustling. Here his 
wife had left him, taking with her all the silver, and 
he moved to a third station of a still lower class, 
where no hot dishes were served. ‘Then to a fourth. 
Frequently changing his situation and sinking lower 
and lower, he had at last come to Progonnaya, and 
here he used to sell nothing but tea and cheap vodka, 
and for lunch hard-boiled eggs and dry sausages, 
which smelt of tar, and which he himself sarcastic- 
ally said were only fit for the orchestra. He was 
bald all over the top of his head, and had prominent 


The Murder 93 


blue eyes and thick bushy whiskers, which he often 
combed out, looking into the little looking-glass. 
Memories of the past haunted him continually; he 
could never get used to sausage “‘only fit for the 
orchestra,” to the rudeness of the station-master, and 
to the peasants who used to haggle over the prices, 
and in his opinion it was as unseemly to haggle over 
prices in a refreshment room as in a chemist’s shop. 
He was ashamed of his poverty and degradation, 
and that shame was now the leading interest of his 
life. 

‘“ Spring is late this year,’”’ said Matvey, listening. 
‘“Tt’s a good job; I don’t like spring. In spring it 
is very muddy, Sergey Nikanoritch. In books they 
write: Spring, the birds sing, the sun is setting, but 
what is there pleasant inthat? A bird is a bird, and 
10thing more. I am fond of good company, of listen- 
ing to folks, of talking of religion or singing some- 
thing agreeable in chorus; but as for nightingales and 
flowers — bless them, I say!” 

He began again about the tile factory, about the 
choir, but Sergey Nikanoritch could not get over 
his mortification, and kept shrugging his shoulders 
and muttering. Matvey said good-bye and went 
home. 

There was no frost, and the snow was already 
melting on the roofs, though it was still falling in big 
flakes; they were whirling rapidly round and round 
in the air and chasing one another in white clouds 
along the railway lines. And the oak forest on both 
sides of the line, in the dim light of the moon, which 
was hidden somewhere high up in the clouds, re- 
sounded with a prolonged sullen murmur. When a 


94 The Tales of Chekhov 


violent storm shakes the trees, how terrible they are! 
Matvey walked along the causeway beside the line, 
covering his face and his hands, while the wind beat 
on his back. All at once a little nag, plastered all 
over with snow, came into sight; a sledge scraped 
along the bare stones of the causeway, and a peas- 
ant, white all over, too, with his head muffled up, 
cracked his whip. Matvey looked round after him, 
but at once, as though it had been a vision, there was 
neither sledge nor peasant to be seen, and he hastened 
his steps, suddenly scared, though he did not know 
why. 

Here was the crossing and the dark little house - 
whete the signalman lived. ‘The barrier was raised, 
and by it perfect mountains had drifted and clouds 
of snow were whirling round like witches on broom- 
sticks. At that point the line was crossed by an 
old highroad, which was still called ‘the track.” 
On the right, not far from the crossing, by the road- 
side stood Terehov’s tavern, which had been a post- 
ing inn. Here there was always a light twinkling 
at night. 

When Matvey reached home there was a strong 
smell of incense in all the rooms and even in the 
entry. His cousin Yakov Ivanitch was still reading 
the evening service. In the prayer-room where this 
was going on, in the corner opposite the door, there 
stood a shrine of old-fashioned ancestral ikons in 
gilt settings, and both walls to right and to left 
were decorated with ikons of ancient and modern 
fashion, in shrines and without them. On the table, 
which was draped to the floor, stood an ikon of the 
Annunciation, and close by a cyprus-wood cross and 


The Murder Q5 


the censer; wax candles were burning. Beside the 
table was a reading desk. As he passed by the 
prayer-room, Matvey stopped and glanced in at the 
door. Yakov Ivanitch was reading at the desk at 
that moment; his sister Aglaia, a tall lean old woman 
in a dark-blue dress and white kerchief, was praying 
with him. Yakov Ivanitch’s daughter Dashutka, 
an ugly freckled girl of eighteen, was there, too, bare- 
foot as usual, and wearing the dress in which she had 
at nightfall taken water to the cattle. 

‘““Glory to Thee Who hast shown us the light!” 
Yakov Ivanitch boomed out in a chant, bowing low. 

Aglaia propped her chin on her hand and chanted 
in a thin, shrill, drawling voice. And upstairs, above 
the ceiling, there was the sound of vague voices which 
seemed menacing or ominous of evil. No one had 
lived on the storey above since a fire there a long 
time ago. The windows were boarded up, and 
empty bottles lay about on the floor between the 
beams. Now the wind was banging and droning, 
and it seemed as though someone were running and 
stumbling over the beams. 

Half of the lower storey was used as a tavern, 
while Terehov’s family lived in the other half, so 
that when drunken visitors were noisy in the tavern 
every word they said could be heard in the rooms. 
Matvey lived in a room next the kitchen, with a big 
stove, in which, in old days, when this had been a 
posting inn, bread had been baked every day. Da- 
shutka, who had no room of her own, lived in the 
same room behind the stove. A cricket chirped 
there always at night and mice ran in and out. 

Matvey lighted a candle and began reading a book 


96 The Tales of Chekhov 


which he had borrowed from the station policeman. 
While he was sitting over it the service ended, and 
they all went to bed. Dashutka lay down, too. She 
began snoring at once, but soon woke up and said, 
yawning: 

‘You shouldn’t burn a candle for nothing, Uncle 
Matvey.” 

‘It’s my candle,” answered Matvey; “I bought 
it with my own money.” 

Dashutka turned over a little and fell asleep again. 
Matvey sat up a good time longer —he was not 
sleepy — and when he had finished the last page he 
took a pencil out of a box and wrote on the book: 

‘“T, Matvey Terehov, have read this book, and 
think it the very best of all books I have read, for 
which I express my gratitude to the noncommissioned 
oficer of the Police Department of Railways, Kuzma 
Nikolaev Zhukov, as the possessor of this priceless 
book.” 

He considered it an obligation of politeness to 
make such inscriptions in other people’s books. 


II 


On Annunciation Day, after the mail train had 
been seen off, Matvey was sitting in the refreshment 
bar, talking and drinking tea with lemon in it. 

The waiter and Zhukov the policeman were listen- 
ing to him. 

‘“T was, I must tell you,” Matvey was saying, 
‘inclined to religion from my earliest childhood. I 
was only twelve years old when I used to read the 


The Murder Q7 


epistle in church, and my parents were greatly de- 
lighted, and every summer I used to go on a pilgrim- 
age with my dear mother. Sometimes other lads 
would be singing songs and catching crayfish, while I 
would be all the time with my mother. My elders 
commended me, and, indeed, I was pleased myself 
that I was of such good behaviour. And when my 
mother sent me with her blessing to the factory, I 
used between working hours to sing tenor there in 
our choir, and nothing gave me greater pleasure. 
I needn’t say, I drank no vodka, I smoked no tobacco, 
and lived in chastity; but we all know such a mode of 
life is displeasing to the enemy of mankind, and he, 
the unclean spirit, once tried to ruin me and began 
to darken my mind, just as now with my cousin. 
First of all, I took a vow to fast every Monday and 
not to eat meat any day, and as time went on all sorts 
of fancies came over me. For the first week of 
Lent down to Saturday the holy fathers have or- 
dained a diet of dry food, but it is no sin for the weak 
or those who work hard even to drink tea, yet not a 
crumb passed into my mouth till the Sunday, and 
afterwards all through Lent I did not allow myself 
a drop of oil, and on Wednesdays and Fridays I 
did not touch a morsel at all. It was the same in 
the lesser fasts. Sometimes in St. Peter’s fast our © 
factory lads would have fish soup, while I would sit a 
little apart from them and suck a dry crust. Dif- 
ferent people have different powers, of course, but I 
can say of myself I did not find fast days hard, and, 
indeed, the greater the zeal the easier it seems. You 
are only hungry on the first days of the fast, and then 
you get used to it; it goes on getting easier, and by 


98 The Tales of Chekhov 


the end of a week you don’t mind it at all, and there 
is a numb feeling in your legs as though you were not 
on earth, but in the clouds. And, besides that, I laid 
all sorts of penances on myself; I used to get up in 
the night and pray, bowing down to the ground, used 
to drag heavy stones from place to place, used to go 
out barefoot in the snow, and I even wore chains, 
too. Only, as time went on, you know, I was con- 
fessing one day to the priest and suddenly this re- 
flection occurred to me: why, this priest, I thought, is 
married, he eats meat and smokes tobacco — how 
can he confess me, and what power has he to absolve 
my sins if he is more sinful than I? I even scruple 
to eat Lenten oil, while he eats sturgeon, I dare say. 
I went to another priest, and he, as ill-luck would 
have it, was a fat fleshy man, in a silk cassock; he 
rustled like a lady, and he smelt of tobacco, too. I 
went to fast and confess in the monastery, and my 
heart was not at ease even there; I kept fancying the 
monks were not living according to their rules. 
And after that I could not find a service to my mind: 
in one place they read the service too fast, in another 
they sang the wrong prayer, in a third the sacristan 
stammered. Sometimes, the Lord forgive me a sin- 
ner, | would stand in church and my heart would 
throb with anger. How could one pray, feeling 
like that? And I fancied that the people in the 
church did not cross themselves properly, did not 
listen properly; wherever I looked it seemed to me 
that they were all drunkards, that they broke the fast, 
smoked, lived loose lives and played cards. I was 
the only one who lived according to the command- 
ments. The wily spirit did not slumber; it got worse 


The Murder 99 


as it went on. I gave up singing in the choir and I 
did not go to church at all; since my notion was that 
I was a righteous man and that the church did not suit 
me owing to its imperfections — that is, indeed, like 
a fallen angel, I was puffed up in my pride beyond all 
belief. After this I began attempting to make a 
church for myself. I hired from a deaf woman a 
tiny little room, a long way out of town near the cem- 
etery, and made a prayer-room like my cousin’s, only 
I had big church candlesticks, too, and a real censer. 
In this prayer-room of mine I kept the rules of holy 
Mount Athos — that is, every day my matins began 
at midnight without fail, and on the eve of the chief 
of the twelve great holy days my midnight service 
lasted ten hours and sometimes even twelve. Monks 
are allowed by rule to sit during the singing of the 
Psalter and the reading of the Bible, but I wanted 
to be better than the monks, and so I used to stand 
all through. I used to read and sing slowly, with 
tears and sighing, lifting up my hands, and I used 
to go straight from prayer to work without sleeping; 
and, indeed, I was always praying at my work, too. 
Well, it got all over the town ‘ Matvey is a saint; 
Matvey heals the sick and the senseless.’ I never 
had healed anyone, of course, but we all know wher- 
ever any heresy or false doctrine springs up there’s 
no keeping the female sex away. They are just like 
flies on the honey. Old maids and females of all 
sorts came trailing to me, bowing down to my feet, 
kissing my hands and crying out I was a saint and 
all the rest of it, and one even saw a halo round my 
head. It was too crowded in the prayer-room. I 
took a bigger room, and then we had a regular tower 


100 The Tales of Chekhov 


of Babel. The devil got hold of me completely and 
screened the light from my eyes with his unclean 
hoofs. We all behaved as though we were frantic. 
I read, while the old maids and other females sang, 
and then after standing on their legs for twenty-four 
hours or longer without eating or drinking, suddenly 
a trembling would come over them as though they 
were in a fever; after that, one would begin scream- 
ing and then another —it was horrible! I, too, 
would shiver all over like a Jew in a frying-pan, I 
don’t know myself why, and our legs began to prance 
about. It’s a strange thing, indeed: you don’t want 
to, but you prance about and waggle your arms; and 
after that, screaming and shrieking, we all danced 
and ran after one another —ran till we dropped; 
and in that way, in wild frenzy, I fell into fornica- 
tion.” 

The policeman laughed, but, noticing that no 
one else was laughing, became serious and said: 

‘“That’s Molokanism. I have heard they are all 
like that in the Caucasus.” 

‘But I was not killed by a thunderbolt,’ Matvey 
went on, crossing himself before the ikon and moving 
his lips. ‘‘ My dead mother must have been pray- 
ing for me in the other world. When everyone in 
the town looked upon me as a saint, and even ladies 
and gentlemen of good family used to come to me in 
secret for consolation, | happened to go in to our 
landlord, Osip Varlamitch, to ask forgiveness — it 
was the Day of Forgiveness — and he fastened the 
door with the hook, and we were left alone face to 
face. And he began to reprove me, and I must tell 
you Osip Varlamitch was a man of brains, though 


The Murder 101 


without education, and everyone respected and feared 
him, for he was a man of stern, God-fearing life and 
worked hard. He had been the mayor of the town, 
and a warden of the church for twenty years maybe, 
and had done a great deal of good; he had covered 
all the New Moscow Road with gravel, had painted 
the church, and had decorated the columns to look 
like malachite. Well, he fastened the door, and — 
‘I have been wanting to get at you for a long time, 
you rascal, osc wme: said... You;think you: area 
saint, he said. ‘ No, you are not a saint, but a back- 
slider from God, a heretic and an evildoer! .. .’ 
And he went on and on. . . . I can’t tell you how 
he said it, so eloquently and cleverly, as though it 
were all written down, and sotouchingly. He talked 
for two hours. His words penetrated my soul; my 
eyes were opened. [ listened, listened and — burst 
into sobs! ‘ Be an ordinary man,’ he said, ‘ eat and 
drink, dress and pray like everyone else. All that is 
above the ordinary is of the devil. Your chains,’ he 
said, ‘are of the devil; your fasting is of the devil; 
your prayer-room is of the devil. It is all pride,’ 
he said. Next day, on Monday in Holy Week, it 
pleased God I should fall ill. I ruptured myself and 
was taken to the hospital. I was terribly worried, 
and wept bitterly and trembled. I thought there was 
a straight road before me from the hospital to hell, 
and I almost died. I was in misery on a bed of sick- 
ness for six months, and when I was discharged the 
first thing I did I confessed, and took the sacrament 
in the regular way and became a man again. Osip 
Varlamitch saw me off home and exhorted me: ‘ Re- 
member, Matvey, that anything above the ordinary 


102 The Tales of Chekhov 


is of the devil.’ And now I eat and drink like every- 
one else and pray like everyone else. . . . If it hap- 
pens now that the priest smells of tobacco or vodka I 
don’t venture to blame him, because the priest, too, . 
of course, is an ordinary man. But as soon as I am 
told that in the town or in the village a saint has 
set up who does not eat for weeks, and makes rules 
of his own, I know whose work it is. So that is how 
I carried on in the past, gentlemen. Now, like Osip 
Varlamitch, I am continually exhorting my cousins 
and reproaching them, but I am a voice crying in the 
wilderness. God has not vouchsafed me the gift.” 
Matvey’s story evidently made no impression 
whatever. Sergey Nikanoritch said nothing, but be- 
gan clearing the refreshments off the counter, while 
the policeman began talking of how rich Matvey’s 
cousin was. 
“He must have thirty thousand at least,” he said. 
Zhukov the policeman, a sturdy, well-fed, red- 
haired man with a full face (his cheeks quivered 
when he walked), usually sat lolling and crossing his 
legs when not in the presence of his superiors. As 
he talked he swayed to and fro and whistled care- 
lessly, while his face had a self-satisfied, replete air, 
as though he had just had dinner. He was making 
money, and he always talked of it with the air of a 
connoisseur. He undertook jobs as an agent, and 
when anyone wanted to sell an estate, a horse or a 
carriage, they applied to him. 
‘Yes, it will be thirty thousand, I dare say,” Ser- 
. Bey Nikanoritch assented. ‘“ Your grandfather had 
n immense fortune,” he said, addressing Matvey. 
‘“Immense it was; all left to your father and your 


The Murder 103 


uncle. Your father died as a young man and your 
uncle got hold of it all, and afterwards, of course, 
Yakov Ivanitch. While you were going pilgrimages 
with your mamma and singing tenor in the factory, 
they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet.”’ 

“ Fifteen thousand comes to your share,” said the 
policeman, swaying from side to side. ‘‘ The tavern 
belongs to you in common, so the capital is in com- 
mon. Yes. If I were in your place I should have 
taken it into court long ago. I would have taken it 
into court for one thing, and while the case was going 
on I'd have knocked his face to a jelly.” 

Yakov Ivanitch was disliked because, when anyone 
believes differently from others, it upsets even people 
who are indifferent to religion. The policeman dis- 
liked him also because he, too, sold horses and car- 
riages. 

‘You don’t care about going to law with your 
cousin because you have plenty of money of your 
own,” said the waiter to Matvey, looking at him 
with envy. “It is all very well for anyone who has 
means, but here I shall die in this position, I sup- 
Ose s |.” 

Matvey began declaring that he hadn’t any money 
at all, but Sergey Nikanoritch was not listening. 
Memories of the past and of the insults which he en- 
dured every day came showering upon him. His 
bald head began to perspire; he flushed and blinked. 

“A cursed life!” he said with vexation, and he 
banged the sausage on the floor. 


104 The Tales of Chekhov 


III 


The story ran that the tavern had been built in 
the time of Alexander I., by a widow who had set- 
tled here with her son; her name was Avdotya Tere- 
hov. ‘The dark roofed-in courtyard and the gates 
always kept locked excited, especially on moonlight 
nights, a feeling of depression and unaccountable 
uneasiness in people who drove by with posting- 
horses, as though sorcerers or robbers were living in 
it; and the driver always looked back after he had 
passed, and whipped up his horses. ‘Travellers did 
not care to put up here, as the people of the house 
were always unfriendly and charged heavily. The 
yard was muddy even in summer; huge fat pigs used 
to lie there in the mud, and the horses in which the 
Terehovs dealt wandered about untethered, and often 
it happened that they ran out of the yard and dashed 
along the road like mad creatures, terrifying the pil- 
grim women. At that time there was a great deal of 
trafic on the road; long trains of loaded waggons 
trailed by, and all sorts of adventures happened, such 
as, for instance, that thirty years ago some waggon- 
ers got up a quarrel with a passing merchant and 
killed him, and a slanting cross is standing to this 
day half a mile from the tavern; posting-chaises with 
bells and the heavy dormeuses of country gentlemen 
drove by; and herds of horned cattle passed, bellow- 
ing and stirring up clouds of dust. 

When the railway came there was at first at this 
place only a platform, which was called simply a 


The Murder 105 


halt; ten years afterwards the present station, Pro- 
gonnaya, was built. The traffic on the old posting- 
road almost ceased, and only local landowners and 
peasants drove along it now, but the working people 
walked there in crowds in spring and autumn. ‘The 
posting-inn was transformed into a restaurant; the 
upper storey was destroyed by fire, the roof had 
grown yellow with rust, the roof over the yard had 
fallen by degrees, but huge fat pigs, pink and re- 
volting, still wallowed in the mud in the yard. As 
before, the horses sometimes ran away and, lash- 
ing their tails, dashed madly along the road. In the 
tavern they sold tea, hay, oats and flour, as well as 
vodka and beer, to be drunk on the premises and also 
to be taken away; they sold spirituous liquors warily, 
for they had never taken out a licence. 

The Terehovs had always been distinguished by 
their piety, so much so that they had even been 
given the nickname of the “ Godlies.”’ But perhaps 
because they lived apart like bears, avoided people 
and thought out all their ideas for themselves, they 
were given to dreams and to doubts and to changes of 
faith, and almost each generation had a peculiar 
faith of its own. The grandmother Avdotya, who 
had built the inn, was an Old Believer; her son and 
both her grandsons (the fathers of Matvey and 
Yakov) went to the Orthodox church, entertained the 
clergy, and worshipped before the new ikons as de- 
voutly as they had done before the old. The son in 
old age refused to eat meat and imposed upon him- 
self the rule of silence, considering all conversation as 
sin; it was the peculiarity of the grandsons that they 


i106 The Tales of Chekhov 


interpreted the Scripture not simply, but sought in it 
a hidden meaning, declaring that every sacred word 
must contain a mystery. 

Avdotya’s great-grandson Matvey had struggled 
from early childhood with all sorts of dreams and 
fancies, and had been almost ruined by it; the other 
great-grandson, Yakov Ivanitch, was orthodox, but 
after his wife’s death he gave up going to church 
and prayed at home. Following his example, his 
sister Aglaia had turned, too; she did not go to 
church herself, and did not let Dashutka go. Of 
Aglaia it was told that in her youth she used to attend 
the Flagellant meetings in Vedenyapino, and that 
she was still a Flagellant in secret, and that was why 
she wore a white kerchief. ; 

Yakov Ivanitch was ten years older than Matvey; 
he was a very handsome tall old man with a big 
grey beard almost to his waist, and bushy eyebrows 
which gave his face a stern, even ill-natured expres- 
sion. He wore a long jerkin of good cloth or a 
black sheepskin coat, and altogether tried to be clean 
and neat in dress; he wore goloshes even in dry 
weather. He did not go to church, because, to his 
thinking, the services were not properly celebrated 
and because the priests drank wine at unlawful times 
and smoked tobacco. Every day he read and sang 
the service at home with Aglaia. At Vedenyapino 
they left out the ‘‘ Praises” at early matins, and had 
no evening service even on great holidays, but he 
used to read through at home everything that was 
laid down for every day, without hurrying or leaving 
out a single line, and in his spare time read aloud 
the Lives of the Saints. And in everyday life he 


The Murder 107 


adhered strictly to the rules of the church; thus, 
if wine were allowed on some day in Lent, “‘ for the 
sake of the vigil,” then he never failed to drink 
wine, even if he were not inclined. 

He read, sang, burned incense and fasted, not 
for the sake of receiving blessings of some sort from 
God, but for the sake of good order. Man cannot 
live without religion, and religion ought to be ex- 
pressed from year to year and from day to day in 
a certain order, so that every morning and every 
evening a man might turn to God with exactly those 
words and thoughts that were befitting that special 
day and hour. One must live and, therefore, also 
pray as is pleasing to God, and so every day one 
must read and sing what is pleasing to God — that 
is, what is laid down in the rule of the church. Thus 
the first chapter of St. John must only be read on 
Faster Day, and “It is most meet” must not be 
sung from Easter to Ascension, andsoon. ‘The con- 
sciousness of this order and its importance afforded 
Yakov Ivanitch great gratification during his reli- 
gious exercises. When he was forced to break this 
order by some necessity — to drive to town or to the 
bank, for instance — his conscience was uneasy and 
he felt miserable. 

When his cousin Matvey had returned unexpect- 
edly from the factory and settled in the tavern as 
though it were his home, he had from the very first 
day disturbed this settled order. He refused to 
pray with them, had meals and drank tea at wrong 
times, got up late, drank milk on Wednesdays and 
Fridays on the pretext of weak health; almost every 
day he went into the prayer-room while they were 


108 The Tales of Chekhov 


at prayers and cried: ‘‘ Think what you are doing, 
brother! Repent, brother!’ ‘These words threw 
Yakov into a fury, while Aglaia could not refrain 
from beginning to scold; or at night Matvey would 
steal into the prayer-room and say softly: ‘‘ Cousin, 
your prayer is not pleasing to God. For it is writ- 
ten, First be reconciled with thy brother and then 
offer thy gift. You lend money at usury, you deal 
in vodka — repent! ” 

In Matvey’s words Yakov saw nothing but the 
usual evasions of empty-headed and careless people 
who talk of loving your neighbour, of being recon- 
ciled with your brother, and so on, simply to avoid 
praying, fasting and reading holy books, and who 
talk contemptuously of profit and interest simply be- 
cause they don’t like working. Of course, to be 
poor, save nothing, and put by nothing was a great 
deal easier than being rich. 

But yet he was troubled and could not pray as 
before. As soon as he went into the prayer-room 
and opened the book he began to be afraid his cousin 
would come in and hinder him; and, in fact, Matvey 
did soon appear and cry in a trembling voice: 
‘Think what you are doing, brother! Repent, 


brother!” Aglaia stormed and Yakov, too, flew 
into a passion and shouted: “Go out of my 
house!’ while Matvey answered him: ‘“ The house 


belongs to both of us.” 

Yakov would begin singing and reading again, 
but he could not regain his calm, and unconsciously 
fell to dreaming over his book. ‘Though he re- 
garded his cousin’s words as nonsense, yet for some 
reason it had of late haunted his memory that it 


The Murder 109 


is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of 
heaven, that the year before last he had made a very 
good bargain over buying a stolen horse, that one 
day when his wife was alive a drunkard had died of 
vodka in his tavern... . 

He slept badly at nights now and woke easily, 
and he could hear that Matvey, too, was awake, 
and continually sighing and pining for his tile fac- 
tory. And while Yakov turned over from one side 
to another at night he thought of the stolen horse 
and the drunken man, and what was said in the 
gospels about the camel. 

It looked as though his dreaminess were coming 
over him again. And as ill-luck would have it, al- 
though it was the end of March, every day it kept 
snowing, and the forest roared as though it were. 
winter, and there was no believing that spring would 
ever come. ‘The weather disposed one to depres- 
sion, and to quarrelling and to hatred, and in the 
night, when the wind droned over the ceiling, it 
seemed as though someone were living overhead in 
the empty storey; little by little the broodings settled 
like a burden on his mind, his head burned and he 
could not sleep. 


IV 


On the morning of the Monday before Good 
Friday, Matvey. heard from his room Dashutka say 
to Aglaia: 

. ‘Uncle Matvey said, the other day, that there is 
no need to fast.”’ 

Matvey remembered the whole conversation he 


110 The Tales of Chekhov 


had had the evening before with Dashutka, and he 
felt hurt all at once. 

“Girl, don’t do wrong!” he said in a moaning 
voice, like a sick man. ‘‘ You can’t do without 
fasting; our Lord Himself fasted forty days. I 
only explained that fasting does a bad man no good.” — 

“You should just listen to the factory hands; 
they can teach you goodness,” Aglaia said sarcas- 
tically as she washed the floor (she usually washed — 
the floors on working days and was always angry | 
with everyone when she did it). ‘‘ We know how | 
they keep the fasts in the factory. You had better 
ask that uncle of yours — ask him about his * Dar- 
ling,’ how he used to guzzle milk on fast days with 
her, the viper. He teaches others; he forgets about 
his viper. But ask him who was it he left his money 
with — who was it?” 

Matvey had carefully concealed from everyone, 
as though it were a foul sore, that during that period 
of his life when old women and unmarried girls had 
danced and run about with him at their prayers he 
had formed a connection with a working woman and 
had had a child by her. When he went home he 
had given this woman all he had saved at the factory, 
and had borrowed from his landlord for his journey, 
and now he had only a few roubles which he spent 
on tea and candles. The “ Darling” had informed _ 
him later on that the child was dead, and asked him 
in a letter what she should do with the money. ‘This 
letter was brought from the station by the labourer. 
Aglaia intercepted it and read it, and had reproached 
Matvey with his “ Darling”’ every day since. 





The Murder 111 


‘Just fancy, nine hundred roubles,” Aglaia went 
on. ‘‘ You gave nine hundred roubles to a viper, 
no relation, a factory jade, blast you!” She had 
flown into a passion by now and was shouting shrilly: 
‘““Can’t you speak? I could tear you to pieces, 
wretched creature! Nine hundred roubles as 
though it were a farthing. You might have left it 
to Dashutka — she is a relation, not a stranger — 
or else have sent it to Byelev for Marya’s poor 
orphans. And your viper did not choke, may she 
be thrice accursed, the she-devil! May she never 
look upon the light of day!” 

Yakov Ivanitch called to her; it was time to begin 
the ‘‘ Hours.” She washed, put on a white kerchief, 
and by now quiet and meek, went into the prayer- 
room to the brother she loved. When she spoke to 
Matvey or served peasants in the tavern with tea 
she was a gaunt, keen-eyed, ill-humoured old woman; 
in the prayer-room her face was serene and softened, 
she looked younger altogether, she curtsied affect- 
edly, and even pursed up her lips. 

Yakov Ivanitch began reading the service softly 
and dolefully, as he always did in Lent. After he 
had read a little he stopped to listen to the stillness 
that reigned through the house, and then went on 
reading again, with a feeling of gratification; he 
folded his hands in supplication, rolled his eyes, 
shook his head, sighed. But all at once there was 
the sound of voices. The policeman and Sergey 
Nikanoritch had come to see Matvey. Yakov Ivan- 
itch was embarrassed at reading aloud and singing 
when there were strangers in the house, and now, 


112 The Tales of Chekhov 


hearing voices, he began reading in a whisper and 
slowly. He could hear in the prayer-room the 
waiter say: 

“The Tatar at Shtchepovo is selling his business 
for fifteen hundred. He'll take five hundred down 
and an I.0.U. for the rest. And so, Matvey Vas- 
silitch, be so kind as to lend me that five hundred 
roubles. I will pay you two per cent. a month.” 

‘“What money have I got?” cried Matvey, 
amazed. ‘I have no money!” 

‘“Two per cent. a month will be a godsend to 
you,” the policeman explained. ‘‘ While lying by, 
your money is simply eaten by the moth, and that’s 
all that you get from it.” 

Afterwards the visitors went out and a silence 
followed. But Yakov Ivanitch had hardly begun 
reading and singing again when a voice was heard 
outside the door: 

‘‘ Brother, let me have a horse to drive to Veden- 
yapino.” 

It was Matvey. And Yakov was troubled again. 

“Which can you go with?” he asked after a mo- 
ment’s thought. ‘ The man has gone with the sorrel 
to take the pig, and I am going with the little stallion 
to Shuteykino as soon as I have finished.” 

‘“‘ Brother, why is it you can dispose of the horses 
and not I1?”’ Matvey asked with irritation. 

‘“‘ Because I am not taking them for pleasure, but 
for work.” 

‘‘ Our property is in common, so the horses are in 
common, too, and you ought to understand that, 
brother.”’ 

A silence followed. Yakov did not go on pray- 


The Murder 113 


ing, but waited for Matvey to go away from the 
door. 

‘‘ Brother,” said Matvey, “‘I am a sick man. I 
don’t want possessions —let them go; you have 
them, but give me a small share to keep me in my 
illness. Give it me and I'll go away.” 

Yakov did not speak. He longed to be rid of 
Matvey, but he could not give him money, since all 
the money was in the business; besides, there had 
never been a case of the family dividing in the whole 
history of the Terehovs. Division means ruin. 

Yakoy said nothing, but still waited for Matvey 
to go away, and kept looking at his sister, afraid 
that she would interfere, and that there would be 
a storm of abuse again, as there had been in the 
morning. When at last Matvey did go Yakov went 
on reading, but now he had no pleasure init. ‘There 
was a heaviness in his head and a darkness before 
his eyes from continually bowing down to the ground, 
and he was weary of the sound of his soft dejected 
voice. When such a depression of spirit came over 
him at night, he put it down to not being able to 
sleep; by day it frightened him, and he began to feel 
as though devils were sitting on his head and 
shoulders. 

Finishing the service after a fashion, dissatisfied 
and ill-humoured, he set off for Shuteykino. In the 
previous autumn a gang of navvies had dug a bound- 
ary ditch near Progonnaya, and had run up a bill at 
the tavern for eighteen roubles, and now he had to 
find their foreman in Shuteykino and get the money 
from him. ‘The road had been spoilt by the thaw 
and the snowstorm; it was of a dark colour and full 


114 The Tales of Chekhov 


of holes, and in parts it had given way altogether. 
The snow had sunk away at the sides below the road, 
so that he had to drive, as it were, upon a narrow 
causeway, and it was very difficult to turn off it when 
he met anything. The sky had been overcast ever 
since the morning and a damp wind was blow- 
Ine bty in 

A long train of sledges met him; peasant women 
were carting bricks. Yakov had to turn off the road. 
His horse sank into the snow up to its belly; the 
sledge lurched over to the right, and to avoid falling 
out he bent over to the left, and sat so all the time 
the sledges moved slowly by him. Through the 
wind he heard the creaking of the sledge poles and 
the breathing of the gaunt horses, and the women 
saying about him, “ There’s Godly coming,” while 
one, gazing with compassion at his horse, said 
quickly : 

‘It looks as though the snow will be lying till 
Yegory’s Day! They are worn out with it!” 

Yakov sat uncomfortably huddled up, screwing up 
his eyes on account of the wind, while horses and red 
bricks kept passing before him. And perhaps be- 
cause he was uncomfortable and his side ached, he 
felt all at once annoyed, and the business he was 
going about seemed to him unimportant, and he re- 
flected that he might send the labourer next day to 
Shuteykino. Again, as in the previous sleepless 
night, he thought of the saying about the camel, and 
then memories of all sorts crept into his mind: of 
the peasant who had sold him the stolen horse, of 
the drunken man, of the peasant women who had 
brought their samovars to him to pawn. Of course, 


The Murder vas 


every merchant tries to get as much as he can, but 
Yakov felt depressed that he was in trade; he longed 
to get somewhere far away from this routine, and he 
felt dreary at the thought that he would have to 
read the evening service that day. The wind blew 
straight into his face and soughed in his collar, and 
it seemed as though it were whispering to him all 
these thoughts, bringing them from the broad white 
plain. . . . Looking at that plain, familiar to him 
from childhood, Yakov remembered that he had had 
just this same trouble and these same thoughts in 
his young days when dreams and imaginings had 
come upon him and his faith had wavered. 

He felt miserable at being alone in the open coun- 
try; he turned back and drove slowly after the 
sledges, and the women laughed and said: ‘“‘ Godly 
has turned back.” 

At home nothing had been cooked and the samo- 
var was not heated, owing to the fast, and this 
made the day seem very long. Yakov Ivanitch had 
long ago taken the horse to the stable, dispatched 
the flour to the station, and twice taken up the Psalms 
to read, and yet the evening was still far off. Aglaia 
had already washed all the floors, and, having noth- 
ing to do, was tidying up her chest, the lid of which 
was pasted over on the inside with labels off bottles. 
Matvey, hungry and melancholy, sat reading, or 
went up to the Dutch stove and slowly scrutinized 
the tiles which reminded him of the factory. Da- 
shutka was asleep; then, waking up, she went to take 
water to the cattle. When she was getting water 
from the well the cord broke and the pail fell in. 
The labourer began looking for a boathook to get 


46 he alert nee 


the pail out, and Dashutka, barefooted, with legs as 
red as a goose’s, followed him about in the muddy 
snow, repeating: ‘‘ It’s too far!’’ . She meant to say 
that the well was too deep for the hook to reach the 
bottom, but the labourer did not understand her, and 
evidently she bothered him, so that he suddenly 
turned round and abused her in unseemly language. 
Yakov Ivanitch, coming out that moment into the 
yard, heard Dashutka answer the labourer in a long 
rapid stream of choice abuse, which she could only 
have learned from drunken peasants in the tavern. 

‘What are you saying, shameless girl!’ he cried 
to her, and he was positively aghast. ‘‘ What lan- 
guage!” 

And she looked at her father in perplexity, dully, 
not understanding why she should not use those 
words. He would have admonished her, but she 
struck him as so savage and benighted; and for the 
first time he realized that she had no religion. And 
all this life in the forest, in the snow, with drunken 
peasants, with coarse oaths, seemed to him as savage 
and benighted as this girl, and instead of giving her a 
lecture he only waved his hand and went back into 
the room. 

At that moment the policeman and Sergey 
Nikanoritch came in again to see Matvey. Yakov 
Ivanitch thought that these people, too, had no re- 
ligion, and that that did not trouble them in the 
least; and human life began to seem to him as 
strange, senseless and unenlightened as a dog’s. 
Bareheaded he walked about the yard, then he went 
out on to the road, clenching his fists. Snow was 
falling in big flakes at the time. His beard was 


The Murder 97 


blown about in the wind. He kept shaking his head, 
as though there were something ‘weighing upon his 
head and shoulders, as though devils were sitting on 
them; and it seemed to him that it was not himself 
walking about, but some wild beast, a huge terrible 
beast, and that if he were to cry out his voice would 
be a roar that would sound all over the forest and 
the plain, and would frighten everyone. .. . 


Vv 


When he went back into the house the policeman 
was no longer there, but the waiter was sitting with 
Matvey, counting something on the reckoning beads. 
He was in the habit of coming often, almost every 
day, to the tavern; in old days he had come to see 
Yakov Ivanitch, now he came to see Matvey. He 
was continually reckoning on the beads, while his 
face perspired and looked strained, or he would ask 
for money or, stroking his whiskers, would describe 
how he had once been in a first-class station and used 
to prepare champagne punch for officers, and at 
grand dinners served the sturgeon soup with his own 
hands. Nothing in this world interested him but 
refreshment bars, and he could only talk about things 
to eat, about wines and the paraphernalia of the 
dinner-table. On one occasion, handing a cup of 
tea to a young woman who was nursing her baby and 
wishing to say something agreeable to her, he ex- 
pressed himself in this way: 


_. “The mother’s breast is the baby’s refreshment 
par.” 


118 The Tales of Chekhov 


Reckoning with the beads in Matvey’s room, he 
asked for money; said he could not go on living at 
Progonnaya, and several times repeated in a tone 
of voice that sounded as though he were just going to 
cry: 

‘“Where am I to go? Where am I to go now? 
Tell me that, please.” 

Then Matvey went into the kitchen and began 
peeling some boiled potatoes which he had probably 
put away from the day before. It was quiet, and 
it seemed to Yakov Ivanitch that the waiter was 
gone. It was past the time for evening service; 
he called Aglaia, and, thinking there was no one else 
in the house, sang out aloud without embarrassment. 
He sang and read, but was inwardly pronouncing 
other words, ‘“‘ Lord, forgive me! Lord, save me!” 
and, one after another, without ceasing, he made low 
bows to the ground as though he wanted to exhaust 
himself, and he kept shaking his head, so that Aglaia 
looked at him with wonder. He was afraid Matvey 
would come in, and was certain that he would come 
in, and felt an anger against him which he could 
overcome neither by prayer nor by continually bow- 
ing down to the ground. 

Matvey opened the door very softly and went into 
the prayer-room. 

‘It’s a sin, such a sin!” he said reproachfully, 
and heavedasigh. ‘‘ Repent! Think what you are 
doing, brother!” 

Yakov Ivanitch, clenching his fists and not look- 
ing at him for fear of striking him, went quickly 





out of the room. Feeling himself a huge terrible | 
wild beast, just as he had done before on the road, | 


The Murder 119 


he crossed the passage into the grey, dirty room, 
reeking with smoke and fog, in which the peasants 
usually drank tea, and there he spent a long time 
walking from one corner to the other, treading 
heavily, so that the crockery jingled on the shelves 
and the tables shook. It was clear to him now 
that he was himself dissatisfied with his religion, 
and could not pray as he used to do. He must 
repent, he must think things over, reconsider, live 
and pray in some other way. But how pray? And 
perhaps all this was a temptation of the devil, and 
nothing of this was necessary? . . . How was it to 
be? What was he to do? Who could guide him? 
What helplessness! He stopped and, clutching at 
his head, began to think, but Matvey’s being near 
him prevented him from reflecting calmly. And he 
went rapidly into the room. 

Matvey was sitting in the kitchen before a bowl 
of potato, eating. Close by, near the stove, Aglaia 
and Dashutka were sitting facing one another, spin- . 
ning yarn. Between the stove and the table at 
which Matvey was sitting was stretched an ironing- 
board; on it stood a cold iron. 

“Sister,” Matvey asked, “let me have a little 
oil!” 

‘Who eats oil on a day like this?” asked Aglaia. 
“Tam not a monk, sister, but a layman. And in 
-my weak health I may take not only oil but milk.”’ 
“Yes, at the factory you may have anything.” 
Aglaia took a bottle of Lenten oil from the shelf 
_and banged it angrily down before Matvey, with a 
malignant smile, evidently pleased that he was such 
a sinner. 


120 The Tales of Chekhov 


“But I tell you, you can’t eat oil!’’ shouted 
Yakov. 

Aglaia and Dashutka started, but Matvey poured 
the oil into the bowl and went on eating as though 
he had not heard. 

‘‘T tell you, you can’t eat oil!’’ Yakov shouted 
still more loudly; he turned red all over, snatched 
up the bowl, lifted it higher than his head, and 
dashed it with all his force to the ground, so that 


it flew into fragments. ‘‘ Don’t dare to speak!” he 
cried in a furious voice, though Matvey had not 
said a.word: ‘ Don't. dare!” he repeatedjmagd 


struck his fist on the table. 

Matvey turned pale and got up. 

“ Brother!” he said, still munching — “ brother, 
think what you are about!” 

‘Out of my house this minute!’ shouted Yakov; 
he loathed Matvey’s wrinkled face, and his voice, 
and the crumbs on his moustache, and the fact that he 
was munching. ‘“ Out, I tell you!” 

‘“ Brother, calm yourself! The pride of hell has 
confounded you!” , | 

“Hold your tongue!” (Yakov “stampedy) 
‘’ Go away, you devil! ” 

‘If you care to know,”’ Matvey went on in a loud 
voice, as he, too, began to get angry, “‘ you are a 
backslider from God and a heretic. The accursed 
spirits have hidden the true light from you; your 
prayer is not acceptable to God. Repent before it 
is too late! ‘The deathbed of the sinner is terrible! 
Repent, brother! ” 

Yakov seized him by the shoulders and dragged 
him away from the table, while he turned whiter than 





The Murder 121 


ever, and, frightened and bewildered, began mutter- 
ing, ‘‘ What is it? What's the matter?” and, strug- 
gling and making efforts to free himself from 
Yakov’s hands, he accidentally caught hold of his 
shirt near the neck and tore the collar; and it seemed 
to Aglaia that he was trying to beat Yakov. She 
uttered a shriek, snatched up the bottle of Lenten 
oil and with all her force brought it down straight 
on the skull of the cousin she hated. Matvey reeled, 
and in one instant his face became calm and indiffer- 
ent. Yakov, breathing heavily, excited, and feeling 
pleasure at the gurgle the bottle had made, like a 
living thing, when it had struck the head, kept him 
from falling and several times (he remembered this 
very distinctly) motioned Aglaia towards the iron 
with his finger; and only when the blood began 
trickling through his hands and he heard Dashutka’s 
loud wail, and when the ironing-board fell with a 
crash, and Matvey rolled heavily on it, Yakov 
left off feeling anger and understood what had hap- 
pened. 

‘Let him rot, the factory buck!’ Aglaia brought 
out with repulsion, still keeping the iron in her hand. 
The white bloodstained kerchief slipped on to her 

shoulders and her grey hair fell in disorder. ‘‘ He’s 
| got what he deserved! ”’ 
__ Everything was terrible. Dashutka sat on the 
‘floor near the stove with the yarn in her hands, sob- 
bing, and continually bowing down, uttering at each 
bow a gasping sound. But nothing was so terrible 
to Yakov as the potato in the blood, on which he 
was afraid of stepping, and there was something else 
terrible which weighed upon him like a bad dream 





122 The Tales of Chekhov 


and seemed the worst danger, though he could not 
take it in for the first minute. This was the waiter, 
Sergey Nikanoritch, who was standing in the door- 
way with the reckoning beads in his hands, very 
pale, looking with horror at what was happening 
in the kitchen. Only when he turned and went 
quickly into the passage and from there outside, 
Yakov grasped who it was and followed him. 
Wiping his hands on the snow as he went, he 
reflected. The idea flashed through his mind that 
their labourer had gone away long before and had 
asked leave to stay the night at home in the village; 
the day before they had killed a pig, and there were 
huge bloodstains in the snow and on the sledge, and 
even one side of the top of the well was spattered 
with blood, so that it could not have seemed suspi- 
cious even if the whole of Yakov’s family had been 
stained with blood. To conceal the murder would 
be agonizing, but for the policeman, who would 
whistle and smile ironically, to come from the station, 
for the peasants to arrive and bind Yakov’s and 
Aglaia’s hands, and take them solemnly to the dis- 
trict courthouse and from there to the town, while 
everyone on the way would point at them and say 
mirthfully, ‘‘ They are taking the Godlies! ’’ — this 
seemed to Yakov more agonizing than anything, and 
he longed to lengthen out the time somehow, so as 
to endure this shame not now, but later, in the future. 
‘I can lend you a thousand roubles, . . .” he 
said, overtaking Sergey Nikanoritch. ‘If you tell 
anyone, it will do no good. . . . There’s no bring- 
ing the man back, anyway; ”’ and with difficulty keep- 
ing up with the waiter, who did not look round, but 


The Murder 123 


tried to walk away faster than ever, he went on: “I 
can give you fifteen hundred. . . .” 

He stopped because he was out of breath, while 
Sergey Nikanoritch walked on as quickly as ever, 
probably afraid that he would be killed, too. Only 
after passing the railway crossing and going half 
the way from the crossing to the station, he furtively 
looked round and walked more slowly. Lights, red 
and green, were already gleaming in the station and 
along the line; the wind had fallen, but flakes of 
snow were still coming down and the road had turned 
white again. But just at the station Sergey Nikano- 
ritch stopped, thought a minute, and turned reso- 
lutely back. It was growing dark. 

“ Oblige me with the fifteen hundred, Yakov Ivan- 
itch,” he said, trembling all over. ‘“ I agree.” 


VI 


Yakov Ivanitch’s money was in the bank of the 
town and was invested in second mortgages; he 
only kept a little at home, just what was wanted 
for necessary expenses. Going into the kitchen, he 
felt for the matchbox, and while the sulphur was 
burning with a blue light he had time to make out 
the figure of Matvey, which was still lying on the 
floor near the table, but now it was covered with a 
white sheet, and nothing could be seen but his boots. 
A cricket was chirruping. Aglaia and Dashutka 
were not in the room, they were both sitting behind 
the counter in the tea-room, spinning yarn in silence. 
Yakov Ivanitch crossed to his own room with a little 


124 The Tales of Chekhov 


lamp in his hand, and pulled from under the bed a 
little box in which he kept his money. ‘This time 
there were in it four hundred and twenty-one rouble 
notes and silver to the amount of thirty-five roubles; 
the notes had an unpleasant heavy smell. Putting 
the money together in his cap, Yakov Ivanitch went 
out into the yard and then out of the gate. He 
walked looking from side to side, but there was no 
sign of the waiter. 

raul?’ cried Wakov. 

A dark figure stepped out from the barrier at the 
railway crossing and came irresolutely towards him. 

‘Why do you keep walking about?” said Yakov 
with vexation, as he recognized the waiter. ‘ Here 
you are; there is a little less than five hundred. . 

I’ve no more in the house.” 

“Very well; .. . very grateful to you, amar 
tered Sergey Nileenornen! taking the money greedily 
and stuffing it into his pockets. He was trembling 
all over, and that was perceptible in spite of the 
darkness. ‘‘ Don’t worry yourself, Yakov Ivan- 
itch. .... What should 1) chatter for?) Djemoe 
and went away, that’s all I’ve to do with it. As 
the saying is, I know nothing and I can tell nothing, 
. .’ And at once he added with a sigh: “ Cursed 
life! + 

For a minute they stood in silence, without look- 
ing at each other. 

‘‘So it all came from a trifle, goodness knows 
how, . . .”’ said the waiter, trembling. ‘‘I was sit- 
ting counting to myself when all at once a noise. . . . 
I looked through the door, and just on account of 
Lenten oil you . . . Where is he now?” 


: 


The Murder 125 


‘ Lying there in the kitchen.” 

‘““You ought to take him away somewhere... . 
Why put it off?” 

Yakov accompanied him to the station without a 
word, then went home again and harnessed the horse 
to take Matvey.to Limarovo. He had decided to 
take him to the forest of Limarovo, and to leave him 
there on the road, and then he would tell everyone 
that Matvey had gone off to Vedenyapino and had 
not come back, and then everybody would think that 
he had been killed by someone on the road. He 
knew there was no deceiving anyone by this, but to 
move, to do something, to be active was not so 
agonizing as to sit still and wait. He called Da- 
shutka, and with her carried Matvey out. Aglaia 
stayed behind to clean up the kitchen. 

When Yakoy and Dashutka turned back they were 
detained at the railway crossing by the barrier being 
let down. A long goods train was passing, dragged 
by two engines, breathing heavily, and flinging puffs 
of crimson fire out of their funnels. 

The foremost engine uttered a piercing whistle at 
the crossing in sight of the station. 

“Tt’s whistling, . . .”’ said Dashutka. 

The train had passed at last, and the signalman 
lifted the barrier without haste. 

‘Ts that you, Yakov Ivanitch? I didn’t know 
you, so you'll be rich.” 

_ And then when they had reached home they had 
to go to bed. 

Aglaia and Dashutka made themselves a bed in 
the tea-room and lay down side by side, while Yakov 
stretched himself on the counter. ‘They neither said 


126 The Tales of Chekhov 
their prayers nor lighted the ikon lamp before lying 


down to sleep. All three lay awake till morning, | 


but did not utter a single word, and it seemed to them 
that all night someone was walking about in the 
empty storey overhead. 


Two days later a police inspector and the examin- | 


ing magistrate came from the town and made a 
search, first in Matvey’s room and then in the whole 
tavern. They questioned Yakov first of all, and 
he testified that on the Monday Matvey had gone 
to Vedenyapino to confess, and that he must have 
been killed by the sawyers who were working on the 
line. 

And when the examining magistrate had asked 
him how it had happened that Matvey was found 
on the road, while his cap had turned up at home 
— surely he had not gone to Vedenyapino without 
his cap?—and why they had not found a single 
drop of blood beside him in the snow on the road, 
though his head was smashed in and his face and 
chest were black with blood, Yakov was confused, 
lost his head and answered: 

“TI cannot tell.” 

And just what Yakov had so feared happened: 
the policeman came, the district police officer smoked 
in the prayer-room, and Aglaia fell upon him with 
abuse and was rude to the police inspector; and after- 
wards when Yakov and Aglaia were led out of the 
yard, the peasants crowded at the gates and said, 
‘‘ They are taking the Godlies!’ and it seemed that 
they were all glad. 

At the inquiry the policeman stated positively that 


The Murder £27 


Yakov and Aglaia had killed Matvey in order not 
to share with him, and that Matvey had money of 
his own, and that if it was not found at the search 
evidently Yakov and Aglaia had got hold of it. And 
Dashutka was questioned. She said that Uncle Mat- 
vey and Aunt Aglaia quarrelled and almost fought 
every day over money, and that Uncle Matvey was 
rich, so much so that he had given someone — “ his 
Darling ’’ — nine hundred roubles. 

Dashutka was left alone in the tavern. No one 
came now to drink tea or vodka, and she divided 
her time between cleaning up the rooms, drinking 
mead and eating rolls; but a few days later they 
questioned the signalman at the railway crossing, 
and he said that late on Monday evening he had 
seen Yakov and Dashutka driving from Limarovo. 
Dashutka, too, was arrested, taken to the town and 
put in prison. It soon became known, from what 
Aglaia said, that Sergey Nikanoritch had been 
present at the murder. A search was made in his 
room, and money was found in an unusual place, in 
his snowboots under the stove, and the money was 
ail in small change, three hundred one-rouble notes. 
He swore he had made this money himself, and that 
he hadn’t been in the tavern for a year, but witnesses 
testified that he was poor and had been in great 
want of money of late, and that he used to go every 
day to the tavern to borrow from Matvey; and the 
policeman described how on the day of the murder 
he had himself gone twice to the tavern with the 
waiter to help him to borrow. It was recalled at 
this juncture that on Monday evening Sergey Ni- 


128 The Tales of Chekhov 


kanoritch had not been there to meet the passenger 
train, but had gone off somewhere. And he, too, 
was arrested and taken to the town. 

The trial took place eleven months later. 

Yakov Ivanitch looked much older and much thin- 
ner, and spoke in a low voice like a sick man. He 
felt weak, pitiful, lower in stature than anyone else, - 
and it seemed as though his soul, too, like his body, 
had grown older and wasted, from the pangs of his 
conscience and from the dreams and imaginings 
which never left him all the while he was in prison. 
When it came out that he did not go to church the 
president of the court asked him: 

“Are you a dissenter?” 

**T can’t tell,” he answered. 

He had no religion at all now; he knew nothing 
and understood nothing; and his old belief was hate- 
ful to him now, and seemed to him darkness and 
folly. Aglaia was not in the least subdued, and she 
still went on abusing the dead man, blaming him for 
all their misfortunes. Sergey Nikanoritch had 
grown a beard instead of whiskers. At the trial he 
was red and perspiring, and was evidently ashamed 
of his grey prison coat and of sitting on the same 
bench with humble peasants. He defended himself 
awkwardly, and, trying to prove that he had not been 
to the tavern for a whole year, got into an altercation 
with every witness, and the spectators laughed at 
him. Dashutka had grown fat in prison. At the 
trial she did not understand the questions put to her, 
and only said that when they killed Uncle Matvey 
she was dreadfully frightened, but afterwards she 
did not mind. 


The Murder 129 


All four were found guilty of murder with mer- 
cenary motives. Yakov Ivanitch was sentenced to 
penal servitude for twenty years; Aglaia for thirteen 
and a half; Sergey Nikanoritch to ten; Dashutka to 
Six. 


VII 


Late one evening a foreign steamer stopped in 
the roads of Dué in Sahalin and asked for coal. 
The captain was asked to wait till morning, but he 
did not want to wait over an hour, saying that if the 
weather changed for the worse in the night there 
would be a risk of his having to go off without coal. 
In the Gulf of Tartary the weather is liable to vio- 
lent changes in the course of half an hour, and then 
the shores of Sahalin are dangerous. And already 
it had turned fresh, and there was a considerable sea 
running. 

A gang of convicts were sent to the mine from 
the Voevodsky Prison, the grimmest and most for- 
bidding of all the prisons in Sahalin. The coal had 
to be loaded upon barges, and then they had to be 
towed by a steam-cutter alongside the steamer which 
was anchored more than a quarter of a mile from 
the coast, and then the unloading and reloading had 
to begin — an exhausting task when the barge kept 
rocking against the steamer and the men could 
scarcely keep on their legs for sea-sickness. ‘The 
convicts, only just roused from their sleep, still 
drowsy, went along the shore, stumbling in the dark- 
ness and clanking their fetters. On the left, scarcely 
visible, was a tall, steep, extremely gloomy-looking 


130 The Tales of Chekhov 


cliff, while on the right there was a thick impenetrable 
mist, in which the sea moaned with a prolonged 
monotonous sound, “Ah! .. .... ahh .-)2) ah) ee 
ah! .. .” And it was only when the overseer was 
lighting his pipe, casting as he did so a passing ray 
of light on the escort with a gun and on the coarse 
faces of two or three of the nearest convicts, or when 
he went with his lantern close to the water that the 
white crests of the foremost waves could be dis- 
cerned. 

One of this gang was Yakov Ivanitch, nicknamed 
among the convicts the ‘‘ Brush,’’ on account of his 
long beard. No one had addressed him by his name 
or his father’s name for a long time now; they called 
him simply Yashka. 

He was here in disgrace, as, three months after 
coming to Siberia, feeling an intense irresistible long- 
ing for home, he had succumbed to temptation and 
run away; he had soon been caught, had been sen- 
tenced to penal servitude for life and given forty 
lashes. Then he was punished by flogging twice 
again for losing his prison clothes, though on each 
occasion they were stolen from him. The longing 
for home had begun from the very time he had been 
brought to Odessa, and the convict train had stopped 
in the night at Progonnaya; and Yakov, pressing to 
the window, had tried to see his own home, and could 
see nothing in the darkness. He had no one with 
whom to talk of home. His sister Aglaia had been 
sent right across Siberia, and he did not know where 
she was now. Dashutka was in Sahalin, but she had 
been sent to live with some ex-convict in a far-away 


settlement; there was no news of her except that once 


The Murder 131 


a settler who had come to the Voevodsky Prison told 
Yakov that Dashutka had three children. Sergey 
Nikanoritch was serving as a footman at a govern- 
ment official’s at Dué, but he could not reckon on 
ever seeing him, as he was ashamed of being ac- 
quainted with convicts of the peasant class. 

The gang reached the mine, and the men took 
their places on the quay. It was said there would 
not be any loading, as the weather kept getting 
worse and the steamer was meaning to set off. They 
could see three lights. One of them was moving: 
that was the steam-cutter going to the steamer, and 
It seemed to be coming back to tell them whether 
the work was to be done or not. Shivering with 
the autumn cold and the damp sea mist, wrapping 
himself in his short torn coat, Yakov Ivanitch looked 
intently without blinking in the direction in which 
lay his home. Ever since he had lived in prison 
together with men banished here from all ends of 
the earth— with Russians, Ukrainians, ‘Tatars, 
Georgians, Chinese, Gypsies, Jews — and ever since 
he had listened to their talk and watched their suf- 
ferings, he had begun to turn again to God, and it 
seemed to him at last that he had learned the true 
faith for which all his family, from his grandmother 
Avdotya down, had so thirsted, which they had 
sought so long and which they had never found. 
He knew it all now and understood where God was, 
and how He was to be served, and the only thing 
he could not understand was why men’s destinies 
were so diverse, why this simple faith which other 
men receive from God for nothing and together with 
their lives, had cost him such a price that his arms 


122 The Tales of Chekhov 


and legs trembled like a drunken man’s from all the 
horrors and agonies which as far as he could see 
would go on without a break to the day of his death. 
He looked with strained eyes into the darkness, and 
it seemed to him that through the thousand miles 
of that mist he could see home, could see his native 
province, his district, Progonnaya, could see the 
darkness, the savagery, the heartlessness, and the 
dull, sullen, animal indifference of the men he had 
left there. His eyes were dimmed with tears; but 
still he gazed into the distance where the pale lights 
of the steamer faintly gleamed, and his heart ached 
with yearning for home, and he longed to live, to 
go back home to tell them there of his new faith 
and to save from ruin if only one man, and to live 
without suffering if only for one day. 

The cutter arrived, and the overseer announced in 
a loud voice that there would be no loading. 

/back!y? he: commanded. ° “ Steadyily 

They could hear the hoisting of the anchor chain 
on the steamer. A strong piercing wind was blow- 
ing by now; somewhere on the steep cliff overhead 
the trees were creaking. Most likely a storm was 
coming. 
















es cals Peis il ie 


Tay TA Sa iP a, Kiet 

Pi eae ase er bhi Wi 
Op ey % 

ye, id 
id ay ais 
Ate ane AV. eee 
Ce a end Ata ea) it 
the Lae) wf ere ant ry 
emt ew. Tae ue 

eee Hii ear i Leg 
1 ane dan” auepOs yar 
ee | ya eee ait! ; 


is Na le wavae \a Higes Pri 
ee a) le 


UPROOTED 


AN INCIDENT OF MY TRAVELS 


I was on my way back from evening service. The 
clock in the belfry of the Svyatogorsky Monastery 
pealed out its soft melodious chimes by way of pre- 
lude and then struck twelve. The great courtyard 
of the monastery stretched out at the foot of the 
Holy Mountains on the banks of the Donets, and, 
enclosed by the high hostel buildings as by a wall, 
seemed now in the night, when it was lighted up only 
by dim lanterns, lights in the windows, and the 
stars, a living hotch-potch full of movement, sound, 
and the most original confusion. From end to end, 
so far as the eye could see, it was all choked up with 
carts, old-fashioned coaches and chaises, vans, tilt- 
carts, about which stood crowds of horses, dark and 
white, and horned oxen, while people bustled about, 
and black long-skirted lay brothers threaded their 
way in and out in all directions. Shadows and 
streaks of light cast from the windows moved over 
the carts and the heads of men and horses, and in 
the dense twilight this all assumed the most mon- 
strous capricious “shapes: here the tilted shafts 
stretched upwards to the sky, here eyes of fire ap- 
peared in the face of a horse, there a lay brother 
grew a pair of black wings. . . . There was the 
noise of talk, the snorting and munching of horses, 
135 


136 The Tales of Chekhov 


the creaking of carts, the whimpering of children. 
Fresh crowds kept walking in at the gate and belated 
carts drove up. 

The pines which were piled up on the overhanging 
mountain, one above another, and leaned towards 
the roof of the hostel, gazed into the courtyard as 
into a deep pit, and listened in wonder; in their dark 
thicket the cuckoos and nightingales never ceased 
calling. . . . Looking at the confusion, listening to 
the uproar, one fancied that in this living hotch-potch 
no one understood anyone, that everyone was look- 
ing for something and would not find it, and that 
this multitude of carts, chaises and human beings 
could not ever succeed in getting off. : 

More than ten thousand people flocked to the 
Holy Mountains for the festivals of St. John the 
Divine and St. Nikolay the wonder-worker. Not 
only the hostel. buildings, but even the bakehouse, 
the tailoring room, the carpenter’s shop, the carriage 
house, were filled to overflowing. . . . Those who 
had arrived towards night clustered like flies in 
autumn, by the walls, round the wells in the yard, 
or in the narrow passages of the hostel, waiting 
to be shown a resting-place for the night. The lay 
brothers, young and old, were in an incessant move- 
ment, with no rest or hope of being relieved. By 
day or late at night they produced the same impres- 
sion of men hastening somewhere and agitated by 
something, yet, in spite of their extreme exhaustion, 
their faces remained full of courage and kindly 
welcome, their voices friendly, their movements 
rapid. . . . For everyone who came they had to 
find a place to sleep, and to provide food and drink; 


Uprooted 137 


to those who were deaf, slow to understand, or pro- 
fuse in questions, they had to give long and weari- 
some explanations, to tell them why there were no 
empty rooms, at what o’clock the service was to be, 
where holy bread was sold, and so on. ‘They had 
to run, to carry, to talk incessantly, but more than 
that, they had to be polite, too, to be tactful, to 
try to arrange that the Greeks from Mariupol, ac- 
customed to live more comfortably than the Little 
Russians, should be put with other Greeks, that some 
shopkeeper from Bahmut or Lisitchansk, dressed 
like a lady, should not be offended by being put with 
peasants. There were continual cries of: ‘‘ Father, 
kindly give us some kvass! Kindly give us some 
hay!” or ‘‘ Father, may I drink water after con- 
fession?’’ And the lay brother would have to give 
out kvass or hay or to answer: ‘‘ Address yourself 
to the priest, my good woman, we have not the 
authority to give permission.” Another question 
would follow, ‘“‘ Where is the priest then?” and the 
lay brother would have to explain where was the 
priest’s cell. With all this bustling activity, he yet 
had to make time to go to service in the church, 
to serve in the part devoted to the gentry, and to 
give full answers to the mass of necessary and un- 
necessary questions which pilgrims of the educated 
class are fond of showering about them. Watching 
them during the course of twenty-four hours, I found 
it hard to imagine when these black moving figures 
sat down and when they slept. 

When, coming back from the evening service, I 
went to the hostel in which a place had been assigned 
me, the monk in charge of the sleeping quarters was 


138 The Tales of Chekhov 


standing in the doorway, and beside him, on the 
steps, was a group of several men and women dressed 
like townsfolk. | 

‘Sir,’ said the monk, stopping me, “ will you 
be so good as to allow this young man to pass the 
night in your room? If you would do us the favour! 
There are so many people and no place left — it 
is really dreadful! ” 

And he indicated a short figure in a light overcoat 
and a straw hat. I consented, and my chance com- 
panion followed me. Unlocking the little padlock 
on my door, I was always, whether I wanted to or 
not, obliged to look at the picture that hung on the 
doorpost on a level with my face. This picture 
with the title, ‘‘ A Meditation on Death,” depicted 
a monk on his knees, gazing at a coffin and at a 
skeleton laying in it. Behind the man’s back stood 
another skeleton, somewhat more solid and carrying 
a scythe. 

‘There are no bones like that,’ said my com- 
panion, pointing to the place in the skeleton where 
there ought to have been a pelvis. ‘* Speaking gen- 
erally, you know, the spiritual fare provided for the 
people is not of the first quality,” he added, and 
heaved through his nose a long and very melancholy 
sigh, meant to show me that I had to do with a 
man who really knew something about spiritual fare. 

While I was looking for the matches to light a 
candle he sighed once more and said: 

‘When I was in Harkov I went several times 
to the anatomy theatre and saw the bones there; I 
have even been in the mortuary. Am I not in your 
way?” 


Uprooted 139 


My room was small and poky, with neither table 
nor chairs in it, but quite filled up with a chest of 
drawers by the window, the stove and two little 
wooden sofas which stood against the walls, facing 
one another, leaving a narrow space to walk between 
them. Thin rusty-looking little mattresses lay on 
the little sofas, as well as my belongings. There 
were two sofas, so this room was evidently intended 
for two, and I pointed out the fact to my companion. 

“They will soon be ringing for mass, though,” 
he said, ‘‘ and I shan’t have to be in your way very 
long.” 

Still under the impression that he was in my way, 
and feeling awkward, he moved with a guilty step 
to his little sofa, sighed guiltily and sat down. 
When the tallow candle with its dim, dilatory flame 
had left off flickering and burned up sufficiently to 
make us both visible, I could make out what he was 
like. He was a young man of two-and-twenty, with 
a round and pleasing face, dark childlike eyes, 
dressed like a townsman in grey cheap clothes, and 
as one could judge from his complexion and narrow 
shoulders, not used to manual labour. He was of 
a very indefinite type; one could take him neither for 
a student nor for a man in trade, still less for a 
workman. But looking at his attractive face and 
childlike friendly eyes, I was unwilling to believe he 
was one of those vagabond impostors with whom 
every conventual establishment where they give food 
and lodging is flooded, and who give themselves out 
as divinity students, expelled for standing up for 
justice, or for church singers who have lost their 
voice. . . . There was something characteristic, 


140 The Tales of Chekhov 


typical, very familiar in his face, but what exactly, I 
could not remember nor make out. 

For a long time he sat silent, pondering. Prob- 
ably because I had not shown appreciation of his re- 
marks about bones and the mortuary, he thought that 
I was ill-humoured and displeased at his presence. 
Pulling a sausage out of his pocket, he turned it 
about before his eyes and said irresolutely: 

‘““Excuse my troubling you, ... have you a 
knife? ” 

I gave him a knife. 

‘The sausage is disgusting,” he said, frowning 
and cutting himself off a little bit. ‘In the shop 
here they sell you rubbish and fleece you horribly. 
. . . I would offer you a piece, but you would 
scarcely care to consume it. Will you have some? ”’ 

In his language, too, there was something typical 
that had a very great deal in common with what was 
characteristic in his face, but what it was exactly 
I still could not decide. To inspire confidence and 
to show that I was not ill-humoured, I took some of 
the proffered sausage. It certainly was horrible; 
one needed the teeth of a good house-dog to deal 
with it. As we worked our jaws we got into conver- 
sation; we began complaining to each other of the 
lengthiness of the service. 

“The rule here approaches that of Mount 
Athos,” I said; “ but at Athos the night services 
last ten hours, and on great feast-days — fourteen! 
You should go there for prayers!” 

“Yes,” answered my companion, and he wagged 
his head, ‘“‘ I have been here for three weeks. And 
you know, every day services, every day services. 


Uprooted 141 


On ordinary days at midnight they ring for matins, 
at five o’clock for early mass, at nine o’clock for 
late mass. Sleep is utterly out of the question. In 
the daytime there are hymns of praise, special 
prayers, vespers. . . . And when I was preparing 
for the sacrament I was simply dropping from ex- 
haustion.”’ He sighed and went on: ‘ And it’s awk- 
ward not to go to church. . . . The monks give 
one a room, feed one, and, you know, one is ashamed 
not to go. One wouldn’t mind standing it for a 
day or two, perhaps, but three weeks is too much 
— much too much! Are you here for long?” 

““T am going to-morrow evening.” 

“But I am staying another fortnight.” 

‘But I thought it was not the rule to stay for 
so long here? ”’ I said. 

“Yes, that’s true: if anyone stays too long, 
sponging on the monks, he is asked to go. Judge 
for yourself, if the proletariat were allowed to 
stay on here as long as they liked there would never 
be a room vacant, and they would eat up the whole 
monastery. That’s true. But the monks make an 
exception for me, and I hope they won’t turn me out 
for some time. You know] ama convert.” 

fou mean?” 

“Iam a Jew baptized. . . . Only lately I have 
embraced orthodoxy.” 

Now I understood what I had before been utterly 
unable to understand from his face: his thick lips, 
and his way of twitching up the right corner of his 
mouth and his right eyebrow, when he was talking, 
and that peculiar oily brilliance of his eyes which 
is only found in Jews. I understood, too, his phrase- 


142 The Tales of Chekhov 


ology... . From further conversation I learned 
that his name was Alexandr Ivanitch, and had in 
the past been Isaac, that he was a native of the 


Mogilev province, and that he had come to the Holy 


Mountains from Novotcherkassk, where he had 
adopted the orthodox faith. 

Having finished his sausage, Alexandr Ivanitch 
got up, and, raising his right eyebrow, said his 
prayer before the ikon. The eyebrow remained up 
when he sat down again on the little sofa and be- 
gan giving me a brief account of his long biogra- 
phy. 

“From early childhood I cherished a love for 
learning,’ he began in a tone which suggested he 
was not speaking of himself, but of some great man 
of the past. “‘ My parents were poor Hebrews; 
they exist by buying and selling in a small way; 
they live like beggars, you know, in filth. In fact, 
all the people there are poor and superstitious; they 
don’t like education, because education, very 
naturally, turns a man away from religion... . 
They are fearful fanatics. . . . Nothing would in- 
duce my parents to let me be educated, and they 
wanted me to take to trade, too, and to know nothing 
but the Talmud. . . . But you will agree, it is not 
everyone who can spend his whole life struggling 
for a crust of bread, wallowing in filth, and mumbling 
the Talmud. At times officers and country gentle- 
men would put up at papa’s inn, and they used to 
talk a great deal of things which in those days I had 
never dreamed of; and, of course, it was alluring 
and moved me to envy. I used to cry and entreat 
them to send me to school, but they taught me to 


Uprooted 143 


read Hebrew and nothing more. Once I found a 
Russian newspaper, and took it home with me to 
make a kite of it. I was beaten for it, though I 
couldn’t read Russian. Of course, fanaticism is in- 
evitable, for every people instinctively strives to pre- 
serve its nationality, but I did not know that then 
and was very indignant. . . .” 

Having made such an intellectual observation, 
Isaac, as he had been, raised his right eyebrow higher 
than ever in his satisfaction and looked at me, as it 
were, sideways, like a cock at a grain of corn, with 
an air as though he would say: ‘* Now at last you 
see for certain that I am an intellectual man, don’t 
you?” After saying something more about fanati- 
cism and his irresistible yearning for enlightenment, 
he went on: 

“What could I do? I ran away to Smolensk. 
And there I had a cousin who relined saucepans and 
made tins. Of course, I was glad to work under 
him, as I had nothing to live upon; I was barefoot 
and in rags. . . . I thought I could work by day 
and study at night and on Saturdays. And so I did, 
but the police found out I had no passport and sent 
me back by stages to my father. . . .” 

Alexandr Ivanitch shrugged one shoulder and 
sighed. 

“What was one to do?” he went on, and the 
more vividly the past rose up before his mind, the 
more marked his Jewish accent became. ‘“‘ My 
parents punished me and handed me over to my 
grandfather, a fanatical old Jew, to be reformed. 
But I went off at night to Shklov. And when my 
uncle tried to catch me in Shklov, I went off to Mogi- 


144 The Tales of Chekhov 


lev; there I stayed two days and then I went off to 
Starodub with a comrade.” 

Later on he mentioned in his story Gonel, Kiev, 
Byelaya, Tserkov, Uman, Balt, Bendery and at last 
reached Odessa. 

‘In Odessa I wandered about for a whole week, 
out of work and hungry, till I was taken in by some 
Jews who went about the town buying second-hand 
clothes. I knew how to read and write by then, 
and had done arithmetic up to fractions, and I 
wanted to go to study somewhere, but I had not 
the means. What was I to do? For six months 
I went about Odessa buying old clothes, but the 
Jews paid me no wages, the rascals. I resented 
it and left them. Then I went by steamer to 
Perekop.”’ 

What for?” 

““Oh, nothing. A Greek promised me a job— 
there. In short, till I was sixteen I wandered about | 
like that with no definite work and no roots till I 
got to Poltava. There a student, a Jew, found out 
that I wanted to study, and gave me a letter to the 
Harkov students. Of course, I went to Harkov. 
The students consulted together and began to pre- 
pare me for the technical school. And, you know, I 
must say the students that I met there were such that 
I shall never forget them to the day of my death. 
To say nothing of their giving me food and lodging, 
they set me on the right path, they made me think, 
showed me the object of life. Among them were 
intellectual remarkable people who by now are cele- 
brated. For instance, you have heard of Grumaher, 
haven’t you?” 

“No, I haven't.” 





Uprooted 145 


“You haven’t! He wrote very clever articles in 
the Harkov Gazette, and was preparing to be a pro- 
fessor. Well, I read a great deal and attended the 
student’s societies, where you hear nothing that is 
commonplace. I was working up for six months, 
but as one has to have been through the whole high- 
school course of mathematics to enter the technical 
school, Grumaher advised me to try for the veteri- 
nary institute, where they admit high-school boys 
from the sixth form. Of course, I began working 
for it. I did not want to be a veterinary surgeon, 
but they told me that after finishing the course at 
the veterinary institute I should be admitted to the 
faculty of medicine without examination. I learnt 
all Kiihner; I could read Cornelius Nepos, a4 livre 
ouvert; and in Greek I read through almost all Cur- 
tius. But, you know, one thing and another, ... 
the students leaving and the uncertainty of my po- 
sition, and then I heard that my mamma had come 
and was looking for me all over Harkov. ‘Then I 
went away. What was I to do? But luckily I 
learned that there was a school of mines here on 
the Donets line. Why should I not enter that? 


You know the school of mines qualifies one as a 


mining foreman—a splendid berth. I know of 


mines where the foremen get a salary of fifteen hun- 


”? 
. 


Maeda, year.,. Capital.) +)... 1, entered it... 

With an expression of reverent awe on his face, 
Alexandr Ivanitch enumerated some two dozen 
abstruse sciences in which instruction was given at 
the school of mines; he described the school itself, 
the construction of the shafts, and the condition of 
the miners. . . . Then he told me a terrible story 


@ 


ea 


146 The Tales of Chekhov 


which sounded like an invention, though I could not 
help believing it, for his tone in telling it was too 
genuine and the expression of horror on his Semitic 
face was too evidently sincere. 

“While I was doing the practical work, I had 
such an accident one day!” he said, raising both 
eyebrows. ‘‘I was at a mine here in the Donets 
district. You have seen, I dare say, how people are 
let down into the mine. You remember when they 
start the horse and set the gates moving one bucket 
on the pulley goes down into the mine, while the 
other comes up; when the first begins to come up, 
then the second goes down — exactly like a well 
with two’pails. Well, one day I got into the bucket, 
began going down, and can you fancy, all at once I 
heard, Trrr! The chain had broken and I flew 
to the devil together with the bucket and the broken 
bit of chain. .. . I fell from a height of twenty 
feet, flat on my chest and stomach, while the bucket, 
being heavier, reached the bottom before me, and I 
hit this shoulder here against its edge. I lay, you 
know, stunned. I thought I was killed, and all at 
once I saw a fresh calamity: the other bucket, which 
was going up, having lost the counter-balancing 
weight, was coming down with a crash straight upon 
me. ... What was Ito do? Seeing the position, 
‘T squeezed closer to the wall, crouching and waiting 
for the bucket to come full crush next minute on my 
head. I thought of papa and mamma and Mogilev 
and’ Grumaher)’’: . I prayed.’ )?) But “happily 

: it frightens me even to think of it) - .7/” 

Alexandr Ivanitch gave a constrained smile and 


rubbed his forehead with his hand. 


Uprooted 147 


‘But happily it fell beside me and only caught 
this side a little. . . . It tore off coat, shirt and skin, 
you know, from this side. . . . The force of it was 
terrific. JI was unconscious after it. They got me 
out and sent me to the hospital. I was there four 
months, and the doctors there said I should go into 
consumption. I always have a cough now and a 
pain in my chest. And my psychic condition is ter- 
rible. . . . When I am alone in a room I feel over- 
come with terror. Of course, with my health in 
that state, to be a mining foreman is out of the ques- 
tion. I had to give up the school of mines. . . .” 

‘“ And what are you doing now?”’ I asked. 

‘“T have passed my examination as a village school- 
master. Now I belong to the orthodox church, and 
I have a right to be a teacher. In Novotcherkassk, 
where I was baptized, they took a great interest in 
me and promised me a place in a church parish 
school. I am going there in a fortnight, and shall 
ask again.” 

Alexandr Ivanitch took off his overcoat and re- 
mained in a shirt with an embroidered Russian collar 
and a worsted belt. 

‘It is time for bed,” he said, folding his over- 
coat for a pillow, and yawning. “ Till lately, you 
know, I had no knowledge of God at all. I was 
an atheist. When I was lying in the hospital I 
thought of religion, and began reflecting on that 
subject. In my opinion, there is only one religion 
possible for a thinking man, and that is the Christian 
religion. If you don’t believe in Christ, then there 
is nothing else to believe in, . . . is there? Juda- 
ism has outlived its day, and is preserved only owing 


148 The Tales of Chekhov 


to the peculiarities of the Jewish race. When civi- 
lization reaches the Jews there will not be a trace of 
Judaism left. All young Jews are atheists now, ob- 
serve. [he New Testament is the natural continua- 
tion of the Old, isn’t it?” 

I began trying to find out the reasons which had 
led him to take so grave and bold a step as the 
change of religion, but he kept repeating the same, 
‘The New Testament is the natural continuation of 
the Old’ —a formula obviously not his own, but 
acquired — which did not explain the question in the 
least. In spite of my efforts and artifices, the rea- 
sons remained obscure. If one could believe that 
he had embraced Orthodoxy from conviction, as he 
said he had done, what was the nature and founda- 
tion of this conviction it was impossible to grasp from 
his words. It was equally impossible to assume that 
he had changed his religion from interested motives: 
his cheap shabby clothes, his going on living at the 
expense of the convent, and the uncertainty of his fu- 
ture, did not look like interested motives. There 
was nothing for it but to accept the idea that my 
companion had been impelled to change his religion 
by the same restless spirit which had flung him like 
a chip of wood from town to town, and which he, 
using the generally accepted formula, called the crav- 
ing for enlightenment. 

Before going to bed I went into the corridor to 
get a drink of water. When I came back my com- 
panion was standing in the middle of the room, and 
he looked at me with a scared expression. His face 
looked a greyish white, and there were drops of 
perspiration on his forehead. 


Uprooted 149 


‘My nerves are in an awful state,’ he muttered, 
with a sickly smile, ‘‘ awful! It’s acute psychologi- 
cal disturbance. But that’s of no consequence.” 

And he began reasoning again that the New Testa- 
ment was a natural continuation of the Old, that 
Judaism has outlived its day. . . . Picking out his 
phrases, he seemed to be trying to put together the 
forces of his conviction and to smother with them 
the uneasiness of his soul, and to prove to himself 
that in giving up the religion of his fathers he had 
done nothing dreadful or peculiar, but had acted as a 
thinking man free from prejudice, and that therefore 
he could boldly remain in a room all alone with his 
conscience. He was trying to convince himself, and 
with his eyes besought my assistance. 

Meanwhile a big clumsy wick had burned up on 
our tallow candle. It was by now getting light. At 
the gloomy little window, which was turning blue, we 
could distinctly see both banks of the Donets River 
and the oak copse beyond the river. It was time to 
sleep. 

“It will be very interesting here to-morrow,” said 
my companion when I put out the candle and went 
to bed. ‘‘ After early mass, the procession will go 
in boats from the Monastery to the Hermitage.” 

Raising his right eyebrow and putting his head on 
one side, he prayed before the ikons, and, without 
undressing, lay down on his little sofa. 

“Yes,” he said, turning over on the other side. 

“Why ‘yes’?” I asked. 

“When I accepted orthodoxy in Novotcherkassk 
my mother was looking for me in Rostov. She felt 
that I meant to change my religion,” he sighed, and 


150 The Tales of Chekhov 


went on: “It is six years since I was there in the 
province of Mogilev. My sister must be married 
by now.” 

After a short silence, seeing that I was still awake, 
he began talking quietly of how they soon, thank 
God, would give him a job, and that at last he would 
have a home of his own, a settled position, his daily 
bread secure. . . . And I was thinking that this man 
would never have a home of his own, nor a settled 
position, nor his daily bread secure. He dreamed 
aloud of a village school as of the Promised Land; 
like the majority of people, he had a prejudice 
against a wandering life, and regarded it as some- 
thing exceptional, abnormal and accidental, like an 
illness, and was looking for salvation in ordinary 
workaday life. The tone of his voice betrayed that 
he was conscious of his abnormal position and re- 
gretted it. He seemed as it were apologizing and 
justifying himself. 

Not more than a yard from me lay a homeless 
wanderer; in the rooms of the hostels and by the 
carts in the courtyard among the pilgrims some hun- 
dreds of such homeless wanderers were waiting for 
the morning, and further away, if one could picture 
to oneself the whole of Russia, a vast multitude of 
such uprooted creatures was pacing at that moment 
along highroads and side-tracks, seeking something 
better, or were waiting for the dawn, asleep in way- 
side inns and little taverns, or on the grass under 
the open sky. . . . As I fell asleep I imagined how 
amazed and perhaps even overjoyed all these people 
would have been if reasoning and words could be 
found to prove to them that their life was as little 


Uprooted 151 


in need of justification as any other. In my sleep I 
heard a bell ring outside as plaintively as though 
shedding bitter tears, and the lay brother calling out 
several times: 

‘“‘ Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon 
us! Come to mass!” 

When I woke up my companion was not in the 
room. It was sunny and there was a murmur of 
the crowds through the window. Going out, I 
learned that mass was over and that the procession 
had set off for the Hermitage some time before. 
The people were wandering in crowds upon the river 
bank and, feeling at liberty, did not know what to do 
with themselves: they could not eat or drink, as the 
late mass was not yet over at the Hermitage; the 
Monastery shops where pilgrims are so fond of 
crowding and asking prices were still shut. In spite 
of their exhaustion, many of them from sheer bore- 
dom were trudging to the Hermitage. The path 
from the Monastery to the Hermitage, towards 
which I directed my steps, twined like a snake along 
the high steep bank, going up and down and thread- 
ing in and out among the oaks and pines. Below, the 
Donets gleamed, reflecting the sun; above, the rugged 
chalk cliff stood up white with bright green on the 
top from the young foliage of oaks and pines, which, 
hanging one above another, managed somehow to 
grow on the vertical cliff without falling. The pil- 
grims trailed along the path in single file, one behind 
another. The majority of them were Little Rus- 
sians from the neighbouring districts, but there were 
many from a distance, too, who had come on foot 
from the provinces of Kursk and Orel; in the long 


152 The Tales of Chekhov 


string of varied colours there were Greek settlers, 
too, from Mariupol, strongly built, sedate and 
friendly people, utterly unlike their weakly and de- 
generate compatriots who fill our southern seaside 
towns. There were men from the Donets, too, with 
red stripes on their breeches, and emigrants from the 
Tavritchesky province. There were a good many 
pilgrims of a nondescript class, like my Alexandr 
Ivanitch; what sort of people they were and where 
they came from it was impossible to tell from their 
faces, from their clothes, or from their speech. The 
path ended at the little landing-stage, from which 
a narrow road went to the left to the Hermitage, cut- 
ting its way through the mountain. At the landing- 
stage stood two heavy big boats of a forbidding 
aspect, like the New Zealand pirogues which one 
may see in the works of Jules Verne. One boat with 
rugs on the seats was destined for the clergy and the 
singers, the other without rugs for the public. When 
the procession was returning I found myself among 
the elect who had succeeded in squeezing themselves 
into the second. There were so many of the elect 
that the boat scarcely moved, and one had to stand all 
the way without stirring and to be careful that one’s 
hat was not crushed. ‘The route was lovely. Both 
banks — one high, steep and white, with overhang- 
ing pines and oaks, with the crowds hurrying back 
along the path, and the other shelving, with green 
meadows and an oak copse bathed in sunshine — 
looked as happy and rapturous as though the May 
morning owed its charm only to them. ‘The reflec- 
tion of the sun in the rapidly flowing Donets quiv- 
ered and raced away in all directions, and its long 


Uprooted ie) 


rays played on the chasubles, on the banners and on 
the drops splashed up by the oars. The singing of 
the Easter hymns, the ringing of the bells, the splash 
of the oars in the water, the calls of the birds, all 
mingled in the air into something tender and har- 
monious. ‘The boat with the priests and the ban- 
ners led the way; at its helm the black figure of a 
lay brother stood motionless as a statue. 

When the procession was getting near the Mon- 
astery, I noticed Alexandr Ivanitch among the elect. 
He was standing in front of them all, and, his mouth 
wide open with pleasure and his right eyebrow cocked 
up, was gazing at the procession. His face was 
beaming; probably at such moments, when there were 
so many people round him and it was so bright, he 
was satisfied with himself, his new religion, and his 
conscience. 

When a little later we were sitting in our room, 
drinking tea, he still beamed with satisfaction; his 
face showed that he was satisfied both with the tea 
and with me, that he fully appreciated my being 
“an intellectual,’ but that he would know how to 
play his Ba with credit if any intellectual topic 
turned up. 

seeLell me, what psychology ought I to header ihe 
began an intellectual conversation, wrinkling up his 
nose. 

“Why, what do you want it for?” 

“One cannot be a teacher without a knowledge of 
psychology. Before teaching a boy I ought to under- 
stand his soul.” 

I told him that psychology alone would not be 
enough to make one understand a boy’s soul, and 


154 The Tales of Chekhov 


moreover psychology for a teacher who had not yet 
mastered the technical methods of instruction in read- 
ing, writing, and arithmetic would be a luxury as 
superfluous as the higher mathematics. He readily 
agreed with me, and began describing how hard and 
responsible was the task of a teacher, how hard it 
was to eradicate in the boy the habitual tendency 
to evil and superstition, to make him think honestly 
and independently, to instil into him true religion, 
the ideas of personal dignity, of freedom, and so on. 
In answer to this I said something to him. 
He agreed again. He agreed very readily, in fact. 
Obviously his brain had not a very firm grasp of all 
these ‘‘ intellectual subjects.” 

Up to the time of my departure we strolled to- 
gether about the Monastery, whiling away the long 
hot day. He never left my side a minute; whether 
he had taken a fancy to me or was afraid of solitude, 
God only knows! I remember we sat together un- 
der a clump of yellow acacia in one of the little gar- 
dens that are scattered on the mountain side. 

“IT am leaving here in a fortnight,” he said; “it 
is high time.” 

‘’ Are you going on foot?”’ 

“From here to Slavyansk I shall walk, then by 
railway to Nikitovka; from Nikitovka the Donets 
line branches off, and along that branch line I shall 
walk as far as Hatsepetovka, and there a railway 
guard, I know, will help me on my way.” 

I thought of the bare, deserted steppe between 
Nikitovka and Hatsepetovka, and pictured to myself 
Alexandr Ivanitch striding along it, with his doubts, 


Uprooted 155 


his homesickness, and his fear of solitude. . . . He 
read boredom in my face, and sighed. 

‘‘ And my sister must be married by now,”’ he said, 
thinking aloud, and at once, to shake off melan- 
choly thoughts, pointed to the top of the rock and 
said: 

‘““From that mountain one can see Izyum.” 

As we were walking up the mountain he had a lit- 
tle misfortune. I suppose he stumbled, for he slit 
his cotton trousers and tore the sole of his shoe. 

‘““Tss!”’ he said, frowning as he took off a shoe 


and exposed a bare foot without a stocking. ‘‘ How 
unpleasant! . . . That’s a complication, you know, 
Watenss.: soYes!} 


Turning the shoe over and over before his eyes, as 
though unable to believe that the sole was ruined 
for ever, he spent a long time frowning, sighing, and 
clicking with his tongue. 

I had in my trunk a pair of boots, old but fash- 
ionable, with pointed toes and laces. I had brought 
them with me in case of need, and only wore them 
in wet weather. When we got back to our room I 
made up a phrase as diplomatic as I could and offered 
him these boots. He accepted them and said with 
dignity: 

‘IT should thank you, but I know that you consider 
thanks a convention.” 

He was pleased as a child with the pointed toes 
and the laces, and even changed his plans. 

“Now I shall go to Novotcherkassk in a week, 
and not in a fortnight,” he said, thinking aloud. 
‘In shoes like these I shall not be ashamed to show 


156 The Tales of Chekhov 


myself to my godfather. I was not going away from 
here just because I hadn’t any decent clothes. . . .” 

When the coachman was carrying out my trunk, a 
lay brother with a good ironical face came in to 
sweep out the room. Alexandr Ivanitch seemed flus- 
tered and embarrassed and asked him timidly: 

‘“Am I to stay here or go somewhere else? ”’ 

He could not make up his mind to occupy a whole 
room to himself, and evidently by now was feeling 
ashamed of living at the expense of the Monastery. 
He was very reluctant to part from me; to put off be- 
ing lonely as long as possible, he asked leave to see 
me on my way. 

The road from the Monastery, which had been 
excavated at the cost of no little labour in the chalk 
mountain, moved upwards, going almost like a spiral 
round the mountain, over roots and under sullen 
overhanging pines... . 

The Donets was the first to vanish from our sight, 
after it the Monastery yard with its thousands of 
people, and then the green roofs. . . . Since I was 
mounting upwards everything seemed vanishing into 
a pit. The cross on the church, burnished by the 
rays of the setting sun, gleamed brightly in the abyss 
and vanished. Nothing was left but the oaks, the 
pines, and the white road. But then our carriage 
came out on a level country, and that was all left 
below and behindus. Alexandr Ivanitch jumped out 
and, smiling mournfully, glanced at me for the last 
time with his childish eyes, and vanished from me 
for eversa 

The impressions of the Holy Mountains had al- 


Uprooted LaF 


ready become memories, and I saw something new: 
the level plain, the whitish-brown distance, the way- 
side copse, and beyond it a windmill which stood with- 
out moving, and seemed bored at not being allowed 
to wave its sails because it was a holiday. 























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MELE STEPPE 


THE STORY OF A JOURNEY 
I 


EaARLy one morning in July a shabby covered chaise, 
one of those antediluvian chaises without springs in 
which no one travels in Russia nowadays, except 
merchant’s clerks, dealers and the less well-to-do 
among priests, drove out of N., the principal town 
of the province of Z., and rumbled noisily along the 
posting-track. It rattled and creaked at every move- 
ment; the pail, hanging on behind, chimed in gruffly, 
and from these sounds alone and from the wretched 
rags of leather hanging loose about its peeling body 
one could judge of its decrepit age and readiness to 
drop to pieces. 

Two of the inhabitants of N. were sitting in the 
chaise; they were a merchant of N. called Ivan Ivan- 
itch Kuzmitchov, a man with a shaven face wearing 
glasses and a straw hat, more like a government 
clerk than a merchant, and Father Christopher Sirey- 
sky, the priest of the Church of St. Nikolay at N., a 
little old man with long hair, in a grey canvas cas- 
sock, a wide-brimmed top-hat and a coloured em- 
broidered girdle. The former was absorbed in 
thought, and kept tossing his head to shake off drow- 
siness; in his vaeling fe an habitual business-like 


reserve was struggling with the genial expression of 
IOI 


162 The Tales of Chekhov 


a man who has just said good-bye to his relatives and 
has had a good drink at parting. The latter gazed 
with moist eyes wonderingly at God’s world, and his 
smile was so broad that it seemed to embrace even 
the brim of his hat; his face was red and looked 
frozen. Both of them, Father Christopher as well 
as Kuzmitchov, were going to sell wool. At part- 
ing with their families they had just eaten heartily 
of pastry puffs and cream, and although it was so 
early in the morning had had a glass or two... . 
Both were in the best of humours. 

Apart from the two persons described above and 
the coachman Deniska, who lashed the pair of frisky 
bay horses, there was another figure in the chaise— 
a boy of nine with a sunburnt face, wet with tears. 
This was Yegorushka, Kuzmitchov’s nephew. With 
the sanction of his uncle and the blessing of Father 
Christopher, he was now on his way to go to school. 
His mother, Olga Ivanovna, the widow of a collegi- 
ate secretary, and Kuzmitchov’s sister, who was fond 
of educated people and refined society, had entreated 
her brother to take Yegorushka with him when he 
went to sell wool and to put him to school; and now 
the boy was sitting on the box beside the coachman 
Deniska, holding on to his elbow to keep from fall- 
ing off, and dancing up and down like a kettle on the 
hob, with no notion where he was going or what he 
was going for. ‘The rapid motion through the air 
blew out his red shirt like a balloon on his back and 
made his new hat with a peacock’s feather in it, like 
a coachman’s, keep slipping on to the back of his 
head. He felt himself an intensely unfortunate per- 
son, and had an inclination to cry. 


The Steppe 163 


When the chaise drove past the prison, Yego- 
tushka glanced at the sentinels pacing slowly by the 
high white walls, at the little barred windows, at the 
cross shining on the roof, and remembered how the 
week before, on the day of the Holy Mother of 
Kazan, he had been with his mother to the prison 
church for the Dedication Feast, and how before 
that, at Easter, he had gone to the prison with De- 
niska and Ludmila the cook, and had taken the pris- 
oners Easter bread, eggs, cakes and roast beef. 
The prisoners had thanked them and made the sign 
of the cross, and one of them had given Yegorushka 
a pewter buckle of his own making. 

The boy gazed at the familiar places, while the 
hateful chaise flew by and left them all behind. 
After the prison he caught glimpses of black grimy 
foundries, followed by the snug green cemetery sur- 
rounded by a wall of cobblestones; white crosses and 
tombstones, nestling among green cherry-trees and 
looking in the distance like patches of white, peeped 
out gaily from behind the wall. Yegorushka re- 
membered that when the cherries were in blossom 
those white patches melted with the flowers into a 
sea of white; and that when the cherries were ripe 
the white tombstones and crosses were dotted with 
splashes of red like bloodstains. Under the cherry- 
trees in the cemetery Yegorushka’s father and 
granny, Zinaida Danilovna, lay sleeping day and 
night. When Granny had died she had been put in 
a long narrow coffin and two pennies had been put 
upon her eyes, which would not keep shut. Up to 
the time of her death she had been brisk, and used 
to bring soft rolls covered with poppy seeds from 


164 The Tales of Chekhov 


the market. Now she did nothing but sleep and 
sleep... 

Beyond the cemetery came the smoking brick- 
yards. From under the long roofs of reeds that 
looked as though pressed flat to the ground, a thick 
black smoke rose in great clouds and floated lazily 
upwards. The sky was murky above the brickyards 
and the cemetery, and great shadows from the clouds 
of smoke crept over the fields and across the roads. 
Men and horses covered with red dust were moving 
about in the smoke near the roofs. . . 

The town ended with the brickyards ond the open 
country began. Yegorushka looked at the town for 
the last time, pressed his face against Deniska’s el- 
bow, and wept bitterly. . . . 

‘“Come, not done howling yet, cry-baby!” cried 
Kuzmitchov. ‘“‘ You are blubbering again, little 
milksop! If you don’t want to go, stay behind; no 
one is taking you by force!” 

‘“ Never mind, never mind, Yegor boy, never 
mind,” Father Christopher muttered rapidly — 
““never mind, my boy. . . . Call upon God. ...: 
You are not going for your harm, but for your good. 
Learning is light, as the saying is, and ignorance is 
daricness., .-- Lhatis so, truly.” 

‘Do you want to go back?” asked Kuzmitchov. 

“Yes, . .- yes, .... answered SYegorushiea 
sobbing. 

‘Well, you’d better go back then. Anyway, you 
are going for nothing; it’s a day’s journey for a 
spoonful of porridge.” 

‘“Never mind, never mind, my boy,’ Father 
Christopher went on. “Call upon God.... 


The Steppe 165 


Lomonosov set off with the fishermen in the same 
way, and he became a man famous all over Europe. 
Learning in conjunction with faith brings forth fruit 
pleasing to God. What are the words of the 
prayer? For the glory of our Maker, for the com- 
fort of our parents, for the benefit of our Church 
and our country. . . . Yes, indeed! ”’ 

“The benefit is not the same in all cases,” said 
Kuzmitchoy, lighting a cheap cigar; ‘“‘some will 
study twenty years and get no sense from it.” 

“That does happen.” 

‘“‘ Learning is a benefit to some, but others only 
muddle their brains. My sister is a woman who 
does not understand; she is set upon refinement, and 
wants to turn Yegorka into a learned man, and she 
does not understand that with my business I could 
settle Yegorka happily for the rest of his life. I 
tell you this, that if everyone were to go in for being 
learned and refined there would be no one to sow the 
corn and do the trading; they would all die of hun- 
ger.’ 

“And if all go in for trading and sowing corn 
there will be no one to acquire learning.” 

And considering that each of them had said some- 
thing weighty and convincing, Kuzmitchov and 
Father Christopher both looked serious and cleared 
their throats simultaneously. 

Deniska, who had been listening to their conver- 
sation without understanding a word of it, shook his 
head and, rising in his seat, lashed at both the bays. 
A silence followed. 

Meanwhile a wide boundless plain encircled by 
a chain of low hills lay stretched before the tray- 


166 The Tales of Chekhov 


ellers’ eyes. Huddling together and peeping out 
from behind one another, these hills melted together 
into rising ground, which stretched right to the very 
horizon and disappeared into the lilac distance; one 
drives on and on and cannot discern where it begins 
or where it ends. . . . The sun had already peeped 
out from beyond the town behind them, and quietly, 
without fuss, set to its accustomed task. At first in 
the distance before them a broad, bright, yellow 
streak of light crept over the ground where the earth 
met the sky, near the little barrows and the wind- 
mills, which in the distance looked like tiny men 
waving their arms. A minute later a similar streak 
gleamed a little nearer, crept to the right and em- 
braced the hills. Something warm touched Yego- 
rushka’s spine; the streak of light, stealing up from 
behind, darted between the chaise and the horses, 
moved to meet the other streak, and soon the whole 
wide steppe flung off the twilight of early morning, 
and was smiling and sparkling with dew. 

The cut rye, the coarse steppe grass, the milk- 
wort, the wild hemp, all withered from the sultry 
heat, turned brown and half dead, now washed by 
the dew and caressed by the sun, revived, to fade 
again. Arctic petrels flew across the road with joy- 
ful cries; marmots called to one another in the grass. 
Somewhere, far away to the left, lapwings uttered 
their plaintive notes. A covey of partridges, scared 
by the chaise, fluttered up and with their soft 
“trrrr!”? flew off to the hills. In the grass crickets, 
locusts and grasshoppers kept up their churring, mo- 
notonous music. 

But a little time passed, the dew evaporated, the 


The Steppe 167 


air grew stagnant, and the disillusioned steppe be- 
gan to wear its jaded July aspect. The grass 
drooped, everything living was hushed. The sun- 
baked hills, brownish-green and lilac in the distance, 
with their quiet shadowy tones, the plain with the 
misty distance and, arched above them, the sky, 
which seems terribly deep and transparent in the 
steppes, where there are no woods or high hills, 
seemed now endless, petrified with dreariness. . . . 

How stifling and oppressive it was! ‘The chaise 
raced along, while Yegorushka saw always the same 
— the sky, the plain, the low hills. . . . The music 
in the grass was hushed, the petrels had flown away, 
the partridges were out of sight, rooks hovered idly 
over the withered grass; they were all alike and 
made the steppe even more monotonous. 

A hawk flew just above the ground, with an even 
sweep of its wings, suddenly halted in the air as 
though pondering on the dreariness of life, then flut- 
tered its wings and flew like an arrow over the 
steppe, and there was no telling why it flew off and 
what it wanted. In the distance a windmill waved 
ies;Sails. .°., . 

Now and then a glimpse of a white potsherd or 
a heap of stones broke the monotony; a grey stone 
stood out for an instant or a parched willow with a 
blue crow on its top branch; a marmot would run 
across the road and — again there flitted before the 
eyes only the high grass, the low hills, the rooks.... 

But at last, thank God, a waggon loaded with 
sheaves came to meet them; a peasant wench was ly- 
ing on the very top. Sleepy, exhausted by the heat, 
she lifted her head and looked at the travellers. 


168 The Tales of Chekhov 


Deniska gaped, looking at her; the horses stretched 
out their noses towards the sheaves; the chaise, 
squeaking, kissed the waggon, and the pointed 
ears passed over Father Christopher’s hat like a 
brush. 

“You are driving over folks, fatty!’ cried De- 
niska. ‘‘ What a swollen lump of a face, as though 
a bumble-bee had stung it!”’ 

The girl smiled drowsily, and moving her lips lay 
down again; then a solitary poplar came into sight 
on the low hill. Someone had planted it, and God 
only knows why it was there. It was hard to tear 
the eyes away from its graceful figure and green 
drapery. Was that lovely creature happy? Sultry 
heat in summer, in winter frost and snowstorms, ter- 
rible nights in autumn when nothing is to be seen but 
darkness and nothing is to be heard but the senseless 
angry howling wind, and, worst of all, alone, alone 
for the, whole, of. life..:. ..;. Beyond), the, jpoplan 
stretches of wheat extended like a bright yellow car- 
pet from the road to the top of the hills. On the 
hills the corn was already cut and laid up in sheaves, 
while at the bottom they were still cutting. . . . Six 
mowers were standing in a row swinging their 
scythes, and the scythes gleamed gaily and uttered 
in unison together ‘‘ Vzhee, vzhee!”’ From the 
movements of the peasant women binding the 
sheaves, from the faces of the mowers, from the glit- 
ter of the scythes, it could be seen that the sultry 
heat was baking and stifling. A black dog with its 
tongue hanging out ran from the mowers to meet 
the. chaise, probably with the intention of barking, 
but stopped halfway and stared indifferently at De- 


The Steppe 169 


niska, who shook his whip at him; it was too hot to 
bark! One peasant woman got up and, putting 
both hands to her aching back, followed Yegorush- 
ka’s red shirt with her eyes. Whether it was that 
the colour pleased her or that he reminded her of 
her children, she stood a long time motionless star- 
ine anter hime? ”. 

But now the aner too, had flashed by; again the 
parched plain, the sunburnt hills, the sultry sky 
stretched before them; again a hawk hovered over 
the earth. In the distance, as before, a windmill 
whirled its sails, and still it looked like a little man 
waving hisarms. It was wearisome to watch, and it 
seemed as though one would never reach it, as 
though it were running away from the chaise. 

Father Christopher and Kuzmitchov were silent. 
Deniska lashed the horses and kept shouting to 
them, while Yegorushka had left off crying, and 
gazed about him listlessly. The heat and the te- 
dium of the steppes overpowered him. He felt as 
though he had been travelling and jolting up and 
down for a very long time, that the sun bad been 
baking his back a long time. Before they had gone 
eight miles he began to feel “It must be time to 
rest.” The geniality gradually faded out of his un- 
cle’s face and nothing else was left but the air of 
business reserve; and to a gaunt shaven face, es- 
pecially when it is adorned with spectacles and the 
nose and temples are covered with dust, this reserve 
gives a relentless, inquisitorial appearance. Father 
Christopher never left off gazing with wonder at 
God’s world, and smiling. Without speaking, he 
brooded over something pleasant and nice, and a 


170 The Tales of Chekhov 


kindly, genial smile remained imprinted on his face. 
It seemed as though some nice and pleasant thought 
were imprinted on his brain by the heat. . . . 

‘Well, Deniska, shall we overtake the waggons 
to-day?’ asked Kuzmitchov. 

Deniska looked at the sky, rose in his seat, lashed 
at his horses and then answered: 

“By nightfall, please God, we shall overtake 
them.” 

There was a sound of dogs barking. Half a 
dozen steppe sheep-dogs, suddenly leaping out as 
though from ambush, with ferocious howling barks, 
flew to meet the chaise. All of them, extraordina- 
rily furious, surrounded the chaise, with their shaggy 
spider-like muzzles and their eyes red with anger, 
and jostling against one another in their anger, raised 
a hoarse howl. ‘They were filled with passionate ha- 
tred of the horses, of the chaise, and of the human 
beings, and seemed ready to tear them into pieces. 
Deniska, who was fond of teasing and beating, was 
delighted at the chance of it, and with a malignant 
expression bent over and lashed at the sheep-dogs 
with his whip. The brutes growled more than ever, 
the horses flew on; and Yegorushka, who had difh- 
culty in keeping his seat on the box, realized, look- 
ing at the dogs’ eyes and teeth, that if he fell down 
they would instantly tear him to bits; but he felt no 
fear and looked at them as malignantly as Deniska, 
and regretted that he had no whip in his hand. 

The chaise came upon a flock of sheep. 

** Stop!’ cried Kuzmitchov. ‘“ Pull up! Woa!” 

Deniska threw kis whole body backwards and 
pulled up the horses. 


The Steppe 171 


‘““Come here!’ Kuzmitchov shouted to the shep- 
herd. ‘‘ Call off the dogs, curse them!” 

The old shepherd, tattered and barefoot, wearing 
a fur cap, with a dirty sack round his loins and a 
long crook in his hand —a regular figure from the 
Old Testament — called off the dogs, and taking off 
his cap, went up to the chaise. Another similar Old 
Testament figure was standing motionless at the 
other end of the flock, staring without interest at the 
travellers. 

‘* Whose sheep are these?” asked Kuzmitchov. 

‘““Varlamov’s,”’ the old man answered in a loud 
voice. 

‘““Varlamov’s,”’ repeated the shepherd standing 
at the other end of the flock. 

‘“Did Varlamov come this way yesterday or 
not?” 

‘“* He did not; his clerk came. . . .” 

“Drive on! ” 

The chaise rolled on and the shepherds, with their 
angry dogs, were left behind. Yegorushka gazed 
listlessly at the lilac distance in front, and it began 
to seem as though the windmill, waving its sails, were 
getting nearer. It became bigger and bigger, grew 
quite large, and now he could distinguish clearly its 
two sails. One sail was old and patched, the other 
had only lately been made of new wood and glistened 
in the sun. ‘The chaise drove straight on, while the 
windmill, for some reason, began retreating to the 
left. They drove on and on, and the windmill kept 
moving away to the left, and still did not disappear. 

‘A fine windmill Boltya has put up for his son,” 
observed Deniska. 


inp The Tales of Chekhov 


‘‘ And how is it we don’t see his farm? ”’ 

‘Tt is that way, beyond the creek.” 

Boltva’s farm, too, soon came into sight, but yet 
the windmill did not retreat, did not drop behind; 
it still watched Yegorushka with its shining sail and 
waved. What a sorcerer! 


II 


Towards midday the chaise turned off the road to 
the right; it went on a little way at walking pace 
and then stopped. Yegorushka heard a soft, very 
caressing gurgle, and felt a different air breathe on 
his face with a cool velvety touch. Through a lit- 
tle pipe of hemlock stuck there by some unknown 
benefactor, water was running in a thin trickle from 
a low hill, put together by nature of huge mon- 
strous stones. It fell to the ground, and limpid, 
sparkling gaily in the sun, and softly murmuring as 
though fancying itself a great tempestuous torrent, 
flowed swiftly away to the left. Not far from its 
source the little stream spread itself out into a pool; 
the burning sunbeams and the parched soil greedily 
drank it up and sucked away its strength; but a little 
further on it must have mingled with another rivu- 
let, for a hundred paces away thick reeds showed 
green and luxuriant along its course, and three snipe 
flew up from them with a loud cry as the chaise drove 
by. 

The travellers got out ‘to rest by the stream and 
feed the horses. Kuzmitchov, Father Christopher 
and Yegorushka sat down on a mat in the nar- 


The Steppe 173 


row strip of shade cast by the chaise and the un- 
harnessed horses. The nice pleasant thought that 
the heat had imprinted in Father Christopher’s 
brain craved expression after he had had a drink 
of water and eaten a hard-boiled egg. He bent 
a friendly look upon Yegorushka, munched, and 
began: 

‘“T studied too, my boy; from the earliest age God 
instilled into me good sense and understanding, so 
that while I was just such a lad as you I was beyond 
others, a comfort to my parents and preceptors by 
my good sense. Before I was fifteen I could speak 
and make verses in Latin, just as in Russian. I was 
the crosier-bearer to his Holiness Bishop Christo- 
pher. After mass one day, as I remember it was 
the patron saint’s day of His Majesty Tsar Alex- 
andr Pavlovitch of blessed memory, he unrobed at 
the altar, looked kindly at me and asked, ‘ Puer bone, 
quam appelaris?’ And I answered, ‘ Christopherus 
sum;’ and he said, ‘Ergo connominati sumus ’~— 
that is, that we were namesakes. . .. Then he 
asked in Latin, ‘ Whose son are you?’ ‘To which I 
answered, also in Latin, that I was the son of deacon 
Sireysky of the village of Lebedinskoe. Seeing my 
readiness and the clearness of my answers, his Holi- 
ness blessed me and said, ‘ Write to your father that 
I will not forget him, and that I will keep you in 
view. The holy priests and fathers who were 
standing round the altar, hearing our discussion in 
Latin, were not a little surprised, and everyone ex- 
pressed his pleasure in praise of me. Before I had 
moustaches, my boy, I could read Latin, Greek, and 
French; I knew philosophy, mathematics, secular 


i. 





174 The Tales of Chekhov 


history, and all the sciences. The Lord gave me a 
marvellous memory. Sometimes, if I read a thing 
once or twice, I knew it by heart. My preceptors 
and patrons were amazed, and so they expected I 
should make a learned man, a luminary of the 
Church. I did think of going to Kiev to continue 
my studies, but my parents did not approve. 
‘You'll be studying all your life,’ said my father; 
‘when shall we see you finished?’ Hearing such 
words, I gave up study and took a post... . Of 
course, I did not become a learned man, but then 
I did not disobey my parents; I was a comfort to 
them in their old age and gave them a creditable 
funeral. Obedience is more than fasting and 
prayer.” 

‘“T suppose you have forgotten all your learn- 
ing?’ observed Kuzmitchov. 

‘*T should think so! Thank God, I have reached 
my eightieth year! Something of philosophy and 
rhetoric I do remember, but languages and mathe- 
matics I have quite forgotten.” 

Father Christopher screwed up his eyes, thought 
a minute and said in an undertone: 

‘What is a substance? A creature is a self-ex- 
isting object, not requiring anything else for its com- 
pletion.” Z 

He shook his head and laughed with feeling. 

‘Spiritual nourishment!” he said. ‘‘ Of a truth 
matter nourishes the flesh and spiritual nourishment 
the soul!” 

‘Learning is all very well,” sighed Kuzmitchov, 
“but if we don’t overtake Varlamov, learning won't 
do much for us.” 


The Steppe 175 


‘“ A man isn’t a needle — we shall find him. He 
must be going his rounds in these parts.” 

Among the sedge were flying the three snipe they 
had seen before, and in their plaintive cries there 
was a note of alarm and vexation at having been 
driven away from the stream. ‘The horses were 
steadily munching and snorting. Deniska walked 
about by them and, trying to appear indifferent to 
the cucumbers, pies, and eggs that the gentry were 
eating, he concentrated himself on the gadflies and 
horseflies that were fastening upon the horses’ backs 
and bellies; he squashed his victims apathetically, 
emitting a peculiar, fiendishly triumphant, guttural 
sound, and when he missed them cleared his throat 
with an air of vexation and looked after every lucky 
one that escaped death. 

‘“ Deniska, where are you? Come and eat,”’ said 
Kuzmitchoy, heaving a deep sigh, a sign that he 
had had enough. 

Deniska difidently approached the mat and picked 
out five thick and yellow cucumbers (he did not ven- 
ture to take the smaller and fresher ones), took two 
hard-boiled eggs that looked dark and were 
cracked, then irresolutely, as though afraid he might 
get a blow on his outstretched hand, touched a pie 
with his finger. 

“Take them, take them,’’ Kuzmitchov urged him 
on. 
Deniska took the pies resolutely, and, moving 
some distance away, sat down on the grass with his 
back to the chaise. At once there was such a sound 
of loud munching that even the horses turned round 
to look suspiciously at Deniska. 


176 The Tales of Chekhov 


After his meal Kuzmitchov took a sack contain- 
ing something out of the chaise and said to Yego- 
rushka: 

‘““T am going to sleep, and you mind that no one 
takes the sack from under my head.” 

Father Christopher took off his cassock, his girdle, 
and his full coat, and Yegorushka, looking at him, 
was dumb with astonishment. He had never imag- 
ined that priests wore trousers, and Father Chris- 
topher had on real canvas trousers thrust into high 
boots, and a short striped jacket. Looking at him, 
Yegorushka thought that in this costume, so unsuit- 
able to his dignified position, he looked with his long 
hair and beard very much like Robinson Crusoe. 
After taking off their outer garments Kuzmitchov 
and Father Christopher lay down in the shade under 
the chaise, facing one another, and closed their eyes. 
Deniska, who had finished munching, stretched him- 
self out on his back and also closed his eyes. 

“You look out that no one takes away the 
horses! ’’ he said to Yegorushka, and at once fell 
asleep. 

Stillness reigned. There was no sound except the 
munching and snorting of the horses and the snoring 
of the sleepers; somewhere far away a lapwing 
wailed, and from time to time there sounded the 
shrill cries of the three snipe who had flown up to see 
whether their uninvited visitors had gone away; the 
rivulet babbled, lisping softly, but all these sounds 
did not break the stillness, did not stir the stagna- 
tion, but, on the contrary, lulled all nature to slum- 
ber. 

Yegorushka, gasping with the heat, which was 


The Steppe 177 


particularly oppressive after a meal, ran to the sedge 
and from there surveyed the country. He saw ex- 
actly the same as he had in the morning: the plain, 
the low hills, the sky, the lilac distance; only the 
hills stood nearer; and he could not see the wind- 
mill, which had been left far behind. From behind 
the rocky hill from which the stream flowed rose an- 
other, smoother and broader; a little hamlet of five 
or six homesteads clung to it. No people, no trees, 
no shade were to be seen about the huts; it looked 
as though the hamlet had expired in the burning air 
and was dried up. To while away the time Yego- 
rushka caught a grasshopper in the grass, held it in 
his closed hand to his ear, and spent a long time 
listening to the creature playing on its instrument. 
When he was weary of its music he ran after a flock 
of yellow butterflies who were flying towards the 
sedge on the watercourse, and found himself again 
beside the chaise, without noticing how he came 
there. His uncle and Father Christopher were 
sound asleep; their sleep would be sure to last two or 
three hours till the horses had rested. . . . How 
was he to get through that long time, and where was 
he to get away from the heat? A hard problem. 
. . . Mechanically Yegorushka put his lips to the 
trickle that ran from the waterpipe; there was a chill- 
iness in his mouth and there was the smell of hem- 
lock. He drank at first eagerly, then went on with 
effort till the sharp cold had run from his mouth all 
over his body and the water was spilt on his shirt. 
Then he went up to the chaise and began looking at 
the sleeping figures. His uncle’s face wore, as be- 
fore, an expression of business-like reserve. Fanat- 


178 The Tales of Chekhov 


ically devoted to his work, Kuzmitchov always, even 
in his sleep and at church when they were singing, 
‘* Like the cherubim,” thought about his business and 
could never forget it for a moment; and now he 
was probably dreaming about bales of wool, wag- 
gons, prices, Varlamov. . . . Father Christopher, 
now, a soft, frivolous and absurd person, had never 
all his life been conscious of anything which could, 
like a boa-constrictor, coil about his soul and hold it 
tight. In all the numerous enterprises he had un- 
dertaken in his day what attracted him was not so 
much the business itself, but the bustle and the con- 
tact with other people involved in every undertaking. 
Thus, in the present expedition, he was not so much 
interested in wool, in Varlamoy, and in prices, as in 
the long journey, the conversations on the way, the 
sleeping under a chaise, and the meals at odd times. 
. . . And now, judging from his face, he must have 
been dreaming of Bishop Christopher, of the Latin 
discussion, of his wife, of puffs and cream and all 
sorts of things that Kuzmitchov could not possibly 
dream of. 

While Yegorushka was watching their sleeping 
faces he suddenly heard a soft singing; somewhere 
at a distance a woman was singing, and it was diff- 
cult to tell where and in what direction. .The song 
was subdued, dreary and melancholy, like a dirge, 
and hardly audible, and seemed to come first from 
the right, then from the left, then from above, and 
then from underground, as though an unseen spirit 
were hovering over the steppe and singing. Yego- 
rushka looked about him, and could not make out 
where the strange song came from. Then as he 


The Steppe 179 


listened he began to fancy that the grass was singing; 
in its song, withered and half-dead, it was. without 
words, but plaintively and passionately, urging that 
it was not to blame, that the sun was burning it for 
no fault of its own; it urged that it ardently longed 
to live, that it was young and might have been beau- 
tiful but for the heat and the drought; it was guilt- 
less, but yet it prayed forgiveness and protested that 
it was in anguish, sad and sorry for itself. . . . 

Yegorushka listened for a little, and it began to 

seem as though this dreary, mournful song made the 
air hotter, more suffocating and more stagnant. . 
To drown the singing he ran to the sedge, humming 
to himself and trying to make a noise with his feet. 
From there he looked about in all directions and 
found out who was singing. Near the furthest hut 
in the hamlet stood a peasant woman in a short petti- 
coat, with long thin legs like a heron. She was sow- 
ing something. A white dust floated languidly from 
her sieve down the hillock. Now it was evident that 
she was singing. A couple of yards from her a little 
bare-headed boy in nothing but a smock was stand- 
ing motionless. As though fascinated by the song, 
he stood stock-still, staring away into the distance, 
probably at Yegorushka’s crimson shirt. 

The song ceased. Yegorushka sauntered back to 
the chaise, and to while away the time went again to 
the trickle of water. 

And again there was the sound of the dreary song. 
It was the same long-legged peasant woman in the 
hamlet over the hill. Yegorushka’s boredom came 
back again. He left the pipe and looked upwards. 
What he saw was so unexpected that he was a little 


180 The Tales of Chekhov 


frightened. Just above his head on one of the big 
clumsy stones stood a chubby little boy, wearing noth- 
ing but a shirt, with a prominent stomach and thin 
legs, the same boy who had been standing before by 
the peasant woman. He was gazing with open 
mouth and unblinking eyes at Yegorushka’s crimson 
shirt and at the chaise, with a look of blank aston- 
ishment and even fear, as though he saw before him 
creatures of another world. The red colour of the 
shirt charmed and allured him. But the chaise and 
the men sleeping under it excited his curiosity; per- 
haps he had not noticed how the agreeable red col- 
our and curiosity had attracted him down from the 
hamlet, and now probably he was surprised at his 
own boldness. For a long while Yegorushka stared 
at him, and he at Yegorushka. Both were silent 
and conscious of some awkwardness. After a long 
silence Yegorushka asked: 

‘‘ What’s your name?” 

The stranger’s cheeks puffed out more than ever; 
he pressed his back against the rock, opened his eyes 
wide, moved his lips, and answered in a husky bass: 
ia Tit ! ”) 

The boys said not another word to each other; 
after a brief silence, still keeping his eyes fixed on 
Yegorushka, the mysterious Tit kicked up one leg, 
felt with his heel for a niche and clambered up the 
rock; from that point he ascended to the next rock, 
staggering backwards and looking intently at Yego- 
rushka, as though afraid he might hit him from be- 
hind, and so made his way upwards till he disap- 
peared altogether behind the crest of the hill. 


The Steppe i81 


After watching him out of sight, Yegorushka put 
his arms round his knees and leaned his head on 
them. . . . The burning sun scorched the back of 
his head, his neck, and his spine. The melancholy 
song died away, then floated again on the stagnant 
stifling air. ‘The rivulet gurgled monotonously, the 
horses munched, and time dragged on endlessly, as 
though it, too, were stagnant and had come to a 
standstill. It seemed as though a hundred years 
had passed since the morning. Could it be that 
God’s world, the chaise and the horses would come 
to a standstill in that air, and, like the hills, turn 
to stone and remain for ever in one spot? Yego- 
rushka raised his head, and with smarting eyes 
looked before him; the lilac distance, which till then 
had been motionless, began heaving, and with the sky 
floated away into the distance. . . . It drew after it 
the brown grass, the sedge, and with extraordinary 
swiftness Yegorushka floated after the flying dis- 
tance. Some force noiselessly drew him onwards, 
and the heat and the wearisome song flew after in 
pursuit. Yegorushka bent his head and shut his 
eyESeISh:!:. 

Deniska was the first to wake up. Something 
must have bitten him, for he jumped up, quickly 
scratched his shoulder and said: 

‘ Plague take you, cursed idolater! ”’ 

Then he went to the brook, had a drink and slowly 
washed. His splashing and puffing roused Yego- 
rushka from his lethargy. The boy looked at his 
wet face with drops of water and big freckles which 
made it look like marble, and asked: 


182 The Tales of Chekhov 


“ Shall we soon be going?” 

Deniska looked at the height of the sun and an- 
swered: 

‘* I expect so.” 

He dried himself with the tail of his shirt and, 
making a very serious face, hopped on one leg. 

‘““T say, which of us will get to the sedge first? ” 
he said. 

Yegorushka was exhausted by the heat and drow- 
siness, but he raced off after him all the same. De- 
niska was in his twentieth year, was a coachman and 
going to be married, but he had not left off being a 
boy. He was very fond of flying kites, chasing pig- 
eons, playing knuckle-bones, running races, and al- 
ways took part in children’s games and disputes. 
No sooner had his master turned his back or gone 
to sleep than Deniska would begin doing something 
such as hopping on one leg or throwing stones. It 
was hard for any grown-up person, seeing the genu- 
ine enthusiasm with which he frolicked about in the 
society of children, to resist saying, ‘‘ What a baby! ”’ 
Children, on the other hand, saw nothing strange in 
the invasion of their domain by the big coachman. 
‘“‘ Let him play,” they thought, “‘ as long as he doesn’t 
fight!’’ In the same way little dogs see nothing 
strange in it when a simple-hearted big dog joins 
their company uninvited and begins playing with 
them. | 

Deniska outstripped Yegorushka, and was evi- 
dently very much pleased at having done so. He 
winked at him, and to show that he could hop on 
one leg any distance, suggested to Yegorushka that 
he should hop with him along the road and from 


The Steppe | 183 


there, without resting, back to the chaise. Yego- 
rushka declined this suggestion, for he was very 
much out of breath and exhausted. 

All at once Deniska looked very grave, as he did 
not look even when Kuzmitchov gave him a scolding 
or threatened him with a stick; listening intently, he 
dropped quietly on one knee and an expression of 
sternness and alarm came into his face, such as one 
sees in people who hear heretical talk. He fixed his 
eyes on one spot, raised his hand curved into a hol- 
low, and suddenly fell on his stomach on the ground 
and slapped the hollow of his hand down upon the 
grass. 

“Caught!” he wheezed triumphantly, and, get- 
ting up, lifted a big grasshopper to Yegorushka’s 
eyes. 

The two boys stroked the grasshopper’s broad 
green back with their fingers and touched his an- 
tennz, supposing that this would please the creature. 
Then Deniska caught a fat fly that had been suck- 
ing blood and offered it to the grasshopper. The 
latter moved his huge jaws, that were like the visor 
of a helmet, with the utmost unconcern, as though 
he had been long acquainted with Deniska, and bit 
off the fly’s stomach. They let him go. With a 
flash of the pink lining of his wings, he flew down 
into the grass and at once began his churring notes 
again. They let the fly go, too. It preened its 
Wings, and without its stomach flew off to the horses. 

A loud sigh was heard from under the chaise. 
It was Kuzmitchov waking up. He quickly raised 
his head, looked uneasily into the distance, and from 
that look, which passed by Yegorushka and Deniska 


184 The Tales of Chekhoy 


without sympathy or interest, it could be seen that his 
thought on awaking was of the wool and of Varla- 
mov. 

‘“‘ Father Christopher, get up; it is time to start,” 
he said anxiously. ‘‘ Wake up; we’ve slept too long 
as it is! Deniska, put the horses in.”’ 

Father Christopher woke up with the same smile 
with which he had fallen asleep; his face looked 
creased and wrinkled from sleep, and seemed only 
half the size. After washing and dressing, he pro- 
ceeded without haste to take out of his pocket a little 
greasy psalter; and standing with his face towards 
the east, began in a whisper repeating the psalms of 
the day and crossing himself. 

‘Father Christopher,” said Kuzmitchov  re- 
proachfully, ‘‘ it’s time to start; the horses are ready, 


and here are you, . . . upon my word.” 
‘“In a minute, in a minute,’ muttered Father 
Christopher. . ‘‘.I,, must.réad » the. psalms:e -ipeml 


haven’t read them to-day.” 

‘The psalms can wait.” 

‘‘Tvan Ivanitch, that is my rule every day... . 
Tea ity oo ce) | or 

‘““ God will overlook it.” 

For a full quarter of an hour Father Christopher 
stood facing the east and moving his lips, while Kuz- 
mitchov looked at him almost with hatred and im- 
patiently shrugged his shoulders. He was particu- 
larly irritated when, after every ‘ Hallelujah,” 
Father Christopher drew a long breath, rapidly 
crossed himself and repeated three times, intention- 
ally raising his voice so that the others might cross 


themselves, ‘‘ Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! 


The Steppe 185 


Glory be to Thee, O Lord!”’ At last he smiled, 
looked upwards at the sky, and, putting the psalter 
in his pocket, said: 

“Finis!” 

A minute later the chaise had started on the road. 
As though it were going backwards and not for- 
wards, the travellers saw the same scene as they had 
before midday. 

The low hills were still plunged in the lilac dis- 
tance, and no end could be seen to them. ‘There 
were glimpses of high grass and heaps of stones; 
strips of stubble land passed by them and still the 
same rooks, the same hawk, moving its wings with 
slow dignity, moved over the steppe. The air was 
more sultry than ever; from the sultry heat and the 
stillness submissive nature was spellbound into 
silence. . . . No wind, no fresh cheering sound, no 
cloud. 

But at last, when the sun was beginning to sink 
into the west, the steppe, the hills and the air could 
bear the oppression no longer, and, driven out of all 
patience, exhausted, tried to fling off the yoke. A 
fleecy ashen-grey cloud unexpectedly appeared be- 
hind the hills. It exchanged glances with the steppe, 
as though to say, ‘‘ Here I am,” and frowned. Sud- 
denly something burst in the stagnant air; there was 
a violent squall of wind which whirled round and 
round, roaring and whistling over the steppe. At 
once a murmur rose from the grass and last year’s 
dry herbage, the dust curled in spiral eddies over 
the road, raced over the steppe, and carrying with it 
straws, dragon flies and feathers, rose up in a whirl- 
ing black column towards the sky and darkened the 


186 The Tales of Chekhov 


sun. Prickly uprooted plants ran stumbling and 
leaping in all directions over the steppe, and one of 
them got caught in the whirlwind, turned round and 
round like a bird, flew towards the sky, and turning 
into a little black speck, vanished from sight. After 
it flew another, and then a third, and Yegorushka 
saw two of them meet in the blue height and clutch 
at one another as though they were wrestling. 

A bustard flew up by the very road. Fluttering 
his wings and his tail, he looked, bathed in the sun- 
shine, like an angler’s glittering tin fish or a waterfly 
flashing so swiftly over the water that its wings 
cannot be told from its antenne, which seem to be 
growing before, behind and on all sides. . 
Quivering in the air like an insect with a shimmer 
of bright colours, the bustard flew high up in a 
straight line, then, probably frightened by a cloud of 
dust, swerved to one side, and for a long time the 
gleam of his wings could be seen. . . . 

Then a corncrake flew up from the grass, alarmed 
by the hurricane and not knowing what was the 
matter. It flew with the wind and not against it, 
like all the other birds, so that all its feathers were 
ruffed up and it was puffed out to the size of a hen 
and looked very angry and impressive. Only the 
rooks who had grown old on the steppe and were 
accustomed to its vagaries hovered calmly over the 
grass, or taking no notice of anything, went on un- 
concernedly pecking with their stout beaks at the 
hard earth. 

There was a dull roll of thunder beyond the hills; 
there came a whiff of fresh air. Deniska gave a 
cheerful whistle and lashed his horses. Father 


The Steppe 187 


Christopher and Kuzmitchov held their hats and 
looked intently ‘towards the hills... . How 
pleasant a shower of rain would have been! 

One effort, one struggle more, and it seemed the 
steppe would have got the upper hand. But the 
unseen oppressive force gradually riveted its fetters 
on the wind and the air, laid the dust, and the still- 
ness came back again as though nothing had hap- 
pened, the cloud hid, the sun-baked hills frowned 
submissively, the air grew calm, and only somewhere 
the troubled lapwings wailed and lamented their 
destiny... . 

Soon after that the evening came on. 


III 


In the dusk of evening a big house of one storey, 
with a rusty iron roof and with dark windows, came 
into sight. [his house was called a posting-inn, 
though it had nothing like a stableyard, and it stood 
in the middle of the steppe, with no kind of enclosure 
round it. A little to one side of it a wretched little 
cherry orchard shut in by a hurdle fence made a 
dark patch, and under the windows stood sleepy 
sunflowers drooping their heavy heads. From the 
orchard came the clatter of a little toy windmill, set 
there to frighten away hares by the rattle. Nothing 
more could be seen near the house, and nothing could 
be heard but the steppe. The chaise had scarcely 
stopped at the porch with an awning over it, when 
from the house there came the sound of cheerful 
Voices, one a man’s, another a woman’s; there was 


188 The Tales of Chekhov 


the creak of a swing-door, and in a flash a tall gaunt 
figure, swinging its arms and fluttering its coat, was 
standing by the chaise. This was the innkeeper, 
Moisey Moisevitch, a man no longer young, with a 
very pale face and a handsome beard as black as 
charcoal. He was wearing a threadbare black coat, 
which hung flapping on his narrow shoulders as 
though on a hatstand, and fluttered its skirts like 
wings every time Moisey Moisevitch flung up his 
hands in delight or horror. Besides his coat the 
innkeeper was wearing full white trousers, not stuck 
into his boots, and a velvet waistcoat with brown 
flowers on it that looked like gigantic bugs. 

Moisey Moisevitch was at first dumb with excess 
of feeling on recognizing the travellers, then he 
clasped his hands and uttered a moan. Huis coat 
swung its skirts, his back bent into a bow, and his 
pale face twisted into a smile that suggested that 
to see the chaise was not merely a pleasure to him, 
but actually a joy so sweet as to be painful. 

“Oh dear! oh dear!” he began in a thin sing- 
song voice, breathless, fussing about and preventing 
the travellers from getting out of the chaise by his 
antics. ‘‘ What a happy day for me! Oh, what 
am I to do now? Ivan Ivanitch! Father Chris- 
topher! What a pretty little gentleman sitting~on 
the box, God strike me dead! Oh, my goodness! | 
why am I standing here instead of asking the visitors | 
indoors? Please walk in, I humbly beg you... . 
You are kindly welcome! Give me all your things. 
. . . Oh, my goodness me! ” 

Moisey Moisevitch, who was rummaging in the 
chaise and assisting the travellers to alight, suddenly 


The Steppe 189 


turned back and shouted in a voice as frantic and 
choking as though he were drowning and calling for 
help: 

‘Solomon! Solomon! ”’ 

‘Solomon! Solomon!” a woman’s voice repeated 
indoors. 

The swing-door creaked, and in the doorway ap- 
peared a rather short young Jew with a big beak- 
like nose, with a bald patch surrounded by rough 
red curly hair; he was dressed in a short and very 
shabby reefer jacket, with rounded lappets and short 
sleeves, and in short serge trousers, so that he looked 
skimpy and short-tailed like an unfledged bird. 
This was Solomon, the brother of Moisey Moise- 
vitch. He went up to the chaise, smiling. rather 
queerly, and did not speak or greet the travellers. 

“Tvan Ivanitch and Father Christopher have 
come,”’ said Moisey Moisevitch in a tone as though 
he were afraid his brother would not believe him. 
“Dear, dear! What a surprise! Such honoured 
guests to have come us so suddenly! Come, take 
their things, Solomon. Walk in, honoured guests.” 

A little later Kuzmitchov, Father Christopher, 
and Yegorushka were sitting in a big gloomy empty 
room at an old oak table. The table was almost 
in solitude, for, except a wide sofa covered with torn 
American leather and three chairs, there was no 
other furniture in the room. And, indeed, not 
everybody would have given the chairs that name. 
They were a pitiful semblance of furniture, covered 
with American leather that had seen its best days, 
and with backs bent backwards at an unnaturally 

acute angle, so that they looked like children’s 


190 The Tales of Chekhov 


sledges. It was hard to imagine what had been the 
unknown carpenter’s object in bending the chair- 
backs so mercilessly, and one was tempted to imagine 
that it was not the carpenter’s fault, but that some 
athletic visitor had bent the chairs like this as a feat, 
then had tried to bend them back again and had 
made them worse. The room looked gloomy, the 
walls were grey, the ceilings and the cornices were 
grimy; on the floor were chinks and yawning holes 
that were hard to account for (one might have 
fancied they were made by the heel of the same 
athlete), and it seemed as though the room would 
still have been dark if a dozen lamps had hung in 
it. [here was nothing approaching an ornament 
on the walls or the windows. On one wall, how- 
ever, there hung a list of regulations of some sort 
under a two-headed eagle in a grey wooden frame, 
and on another wall in the same sort of frame an 
engraving with the inscription, ‘‘ The Indifference 
of Man.” What it was to which men were in- 
different it was impossible to make out, as the en- 
graving was very dingy with age and was extensively 
flyblown. ‘There was a smell of something decayed 
and sour in the room. 

As he led the visitors into the room, Moisey 
Moisevitch went on wriggling, gesticulating, shrug- 


ging and uttering joyful exclamations; he considered — 


these antics necessary in order to seem polite and 
agreeable. 

‘“When did our waggons go by?” Kuzmitchov 
asked. 

‘“One party went by early this morning, and the 





The Steppe 191 


other, Ivan Ivanitch, put up here for dinner and 
went on towards evening.” 

“Ah! . . . Has Varlamov been by‘orinot 2” 

“No, Ivan Ivanitch. His clerk, Grigory Yegor- 
itch, went by yesterday morning and said that he 
had to be to-day at the Molokans’ farm.” 

“Good! so we will go after the waggons directly 
and then on to the Molokans’.” 

“Mercy on us, Ivan Ivanitch!’’ Moisey Moise- 
vitch cried in horror, flinging up his _ hands. 
“Where are you going for the night? You will 
have a nice little supper and stay the night, and 
to-morrow morning, please God, you can go on and 
overtake anyone you like.”’ 

“There is no time for that. . . . Excuse me, 
Moisey Moisevitch, another time; but now I must 
make haste. We’ll stay a quarter of an hour and 
then go on; we can stay the night at the Molokans’.”’ 

‘“ A quarter of an hour! ”’ squealed Moisey Moise- 
vitch. ‘‘ Have you no fear of God, Ivan Ivanitch? 
You will compel me to hide your caps and lock the 
door! You must have a cup of tea and a snack of 
something, anyway.” 

“We have no time for tea,” said Kuzmitchov. 

Moisey Moisevitch bent his head on one side, 
crooked his knees, and put his open hands before 
him as though warding off a blow, while with a smile 
of agonized sweetness he began imploring: 

“Ivan Ivanitch! Father Christopher! Do be 
so good as to take a cup of tea with me. Surely 
I am not such a bad man that you can’t even drink 
tea in my house? Ivan Ivanitch! ” 


192 The Tales of Chekhov 


“Well, we may just as well have a cup of tea,” 
said Father Christopher, with a sympathetic smile; 
‘that won’t keep us long.” 

‘“ Very well,” Kuzmitchoy assented. 

Moisey Moisevitch, in a fluster uttered an 
exclamation of joy, and shrugging as though he 
had just stepped out of cold weather into warm, ran 
to the door and cried in the same frantic voice in 
which he had called Solomon: 

‘Rosa! Rosa! Bring the samovar! ”’ 

A minute later the door opened, and Solomon 
came into the room carrying a large tray in his 
hands. Setting the tray on the table, he looked 
away sarcastically with the same queer smile as 
before. Now, by the light of the lamp, it was pos- 
sible to see his smile distinctly; it was very complex, 
and expressed a variety of emotions, but the pre- 
dominant element in it was undisguised contempt. 
He seemed to be thinking of something ludicrous 
and silly, to be feeling contempt and dislike, to be 
pleased at something and waiting for the favourable 
moment to turn something into ridicule and to burst 
into laughter. His long nose, his thick lips, and his 
sly prominent eyes seemed tense with the desire to 
laugh. Looking at his face, Kuzmitchov smiled 
ironically and asked: a 

‘Solomon, why did you not come to our fair at 
N. this summer, and act some Jewish scenes?” 

Two years before, as Yegorushka remembered 
very well, at one of the booths at the fair at N., 
Solomon had performed some scenes of Jewish life, 
and his acting had been a great success. ‘The allu- 
sion to this made no impression whatever upon Solo- 


The Steppe 193 


mon. Making no answer, he went out and returned 
a little later with the samovar. 

When he had done what he had to do at the 
table he moved a little aside, and, folding his arms 
over his chest and thrusting out one leg, fixed his 
sarcastic eyes on Father Christopher. There was 
something defiant, haughty, and contemptuous in 
his attitude, and at the same time it was comic and 
pitiful in the extreme, because the more impressive 
his attitude the more vividly it showed up his short 
trousers, his bobtail coat, his caricature of a nose, 
and his bird-like plucked-looking little figure. 

Moisey Moisevitch brought a footstool from the 
other room and sat down a little way from the table. 

‘“‘T wish you a good appetite! Tea and sugar!” 
he began, trying to entertain his visitors. “I hope 
you will enjoy it. Such rare guests, such rare ones; 
it is years since I last saw Father Christopher. And 
will no one tell me who is this nice little gentle- 
man?’’ he asked, looking tenderly at Yegorushka. 

‘“He is the son of my sister, Olga Ivanovna,” 
answered Kuzmitchov. 

‘“‘ And where is he going? ” 

“To school. We are taking him to a high 
school.”’ 

In his politeness, Moisey Moisevitch put on a 
look of wonder and wagged his head expressively. 

‘““ Ah, that is a fine thing,” he said, shaking his 
finger at the samovar. ‘‘ That’s a fine thing. You 
will come back from the high school such a gentle- 
man that we shall all take off our hats to you. You 
will be wealthy and wise and so grand that your 
mamma will be delighted. Oh, that’s a fine thing! ” 


194 The Tales of Chekhov 


He paused a little, stroked his knees, and began 
again in a jocose and deferential tone. 

‘“'You must excuse me, Father Christopher, but 
I am thinking of writing to the bishop to tell him 
you are robbing the merchants of their living. I 
shall take a sheet of stamped paper and write that 
I suppose Father Christopher is short of pence, as 
he has taken up with trade and begun selling wool.” 

‘“ Hi’m,! yes... « .-it’s..a.queer notion, imjamypeld 
age,’’ said Father Christopher, and he laughed. “I 
have turned from priest to merchant, brother. I 
ought to be at home now saying my prayers, instead 
of galloping about the country like a Pharaoh in his 
cHarioe.s 4, p-i..2 amieylen, 

‘ But it will mean a lot of pence! ” 

‘““Oh, I dare say! More kicks than halfpence, 
and serve me right. The wool’s not mine, but my 
son-in-law Mihail’s! ”’ 

‘“ Why doesn’t he go himself?” 

* Why, because,..).... His. .mother)s:qinmniligggas 
scarcely dry upon his lips. He can buy wool all 
right, but when it comes to selling, he has no sense; 
he is young yet. He has wasted all his money; he 
wanted to grow rich and cut a dash, but he tried 
here and there, and no one would give him his price. 
And so the lad went on like that for a year, and 


then he came to me and said, ‘ Daddy, you sell the _ 


wool for me; be kind and do it! I am no good at 
the business!’ And that is true enough. As soon 
as there is anything wrong then it’s ‘ Daddy,’ but till 
then they could get on without their dad. When 
he was buying he did not consult me, but now when 
he is in difficulties it’s Daddy’s turn. And what 


The Steppe 195 


does his dad know about it? If it were not for 
Ivan Ivanitch, his dad could do nothing. I have a 
lot of worry with them.”’ 

‘Yes; one has a lot of worry with one’s children, 
I can tell you that,” sighed Moisey Moisevitch. “I 
have six of my own. One needs schooling, another 
needs doctoring, and a third needs nursing, and when 
they grow up they are more trouble still. It is not 
only nowadays, it was the same in Holy Scripture. 
When Jacob had little children he wept, and when 
they grew up he wept still more bitterly.” 

“H’m, yes... Father Christopher assented 
pensively, looking at his glass. “I have no cause 
myself to rail against the Lord. I have lived to 
the end of my days as any man might be thankful 
to live. . . . I have married my daughters to good 
men, my sons I have set up in life, and now I am 
free; I have done my work and can go where [I like. 
I live in peace with my wife. I eat and drink and 
sleep and rejoice in my grandchildren, and say my 
prayers and want nothing more. [I live on the fat 
of the land, and don’t need to curry favour with 
anyone. I have never had any trouble from child- 
hood, and now suppose the Tsar were to ask me, 
‘What do you need? What would you like?’ why, 
I don’t need anything. I have everything I want 
and everything to be thankful for. In the whole 
town there is no happier man than I am. My only 
trouble is I have so many sins, but there — only God 
is without sin. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?” 

“No doubt it is.” 

“T have no teeth, of. course; my poor old back 
aches; there is one thing and another, . . . asthma 


196 The Tales of Chekhov 


and that sort of thing. ... I ache. . . . The flesh 
is weak, but then think of my age! I am in the 
eighties! One can’t go on for ever; one mustn’t 
outstay one’s welcome.”’ 

Father Christopher suddenly thought of some- 
thing, spluttered into his glass and choked with 
laughter. Moisey Moisevitch laughed, too, from 
politeness, and he, too, cleared his throat. 

‘“So funny!” said Father Christopher, and he 
waved his hand. ‘“ My eldest son Gavrila came to 
pay me a visit. He is in the medical line, and is a 
district doctor in the province of Tchernigov. .. . 


‘Very well . . .’ I said to him, ‘ here I have asthma 
and one thing and another. . . . You are a doctor; 
cure your father!’ He undressed me on the spot, 


tapped me, listened, and all sorts of tricks, .. . 
kneaded my stomach, and then he said, ‘ Dad, you 
ought to be treated with compressed air.’”’ Father 
Christopher laughed convulsively, till the tears came 
into his eyes, and got up. 

‘And I said to him, ‘ God bless your compressed 
air!’’’ he brought out through his laughter, waving 
both hands. ‘‘ God bless your compressed air! ”’ 

Moisey Moisevitch got up, too, and with his 
hands on his stomach, went off into shrill laughter 
like the yap of a lap-dog. 

‘“God bless the compressed air!’ repeated Father 
Christopher, laughing. 

Moisey Moisevitch laughed two notes higher and 
so violently that he could hardly stand on his feet. 

‘“Oh dear!” he moaned through his laughter. 
et me ‘get my breath... |: . You'll) be: the death 
of me.” 


- The Steppe 197 


He laughed and talked, though at the same, time 
he was casting timorous and suspicious looks at 
Solomon. The latter was standing in the same 
attitude and still smiling. To judge from his eyes 
and his smile, his contempt and hatred were genuine, 
but that was so out of keeping with his plucked- 
looking figure that it seemed to Yegorushka as 
though he were putting on his defiant attitude and 
biting sarcastic smile to play the fool for the enter- 
tainment of their honoured guests. 

After drinking six glasses of tea in silence, Kuz- 
mitchov cleared a space before him on the table, 
took his bag, the one which he kept under his head 
when he slept under the chaise, untied the string and 
shook it. Rolls of paper notes were scattered out 
of the bag on the table. 

“While we have the time, Father Christopher, 
let us reckon up,” said Kuzmitchov. 

Moisey Moisevitch was embarrassed at the sight 
of the money. He got up, and, as a man of delicate 
feeling unwilling to pry into other people’s secrets, 
he went out of the room on tiptoe, swaying his arms. 
Solomon remained where he was. 

‘“ How many are there in the rolls of roubles?” 
Father Christopher began. 

‘ The rouble notes are done up in fifties, . . . the 
three-rouble notes in nineties, the twenty-five and 
hundred roubles in thousands. You count out seven 
thousand eight hundred for Varlamoy, and I will 
count out for Gusevitch. And mind you don’t make 
a amistakes”. $47? 

Yegorushka had never in his life seen so much 
money as was lying on the table before him. There 


198 The Tales of Chekhov 


must have been a great deal of money, for the roll 
of seven thousand eight hundred, which Father 
Christopher put aside for Varlamov, seemed very 
small compared with the whole heap. At any other 
time such a mass of money would have impressed 
Yegorushka, and would have moved him to reflect 
how many cracknels, buns and poppy-cakes could be 
bought for that money. Now he looked at it list- 
lessly, only conscious of the disgusting smell of kero- 
sene and rotten apples that came from the heap of 
notes. He was exhausted by the jolting ride in the 
chaise, tired out and sleepy. His head was heavy, 
his eyes would hardly keep open and his thoughts 
were tangled like threads. If it had been possible 
he would have been relieved to lay his head on the 
table, so as not to see the lamp and the fingers 
moving over the heaps of notes, and to have let his 
tired sleepy thoughts go still more at random. 
When he tried to keep awake, the light of the lamp, 
the cups and the fingers grew double, the samovar 
heaved and the smell of rotten apples seemed even 
more acrid and disgusting. 

‘“Ah, money, money!” sighed Father Chris- 
topher, smiling. ‘‘ You bring trouble! Now I ex- 
pect my Mihailo is asleep and dreaming that I am 
going to bring him a heap of money like this.”’ 

“Your Mihailo Timofevitch is a man who doesn’t 
understand business,’ said Kuzmitchov in an under- 
tone; ‘‘ he undertakes what isn’t his work, but you 
understand and can judge. You had better hand 
over your wool to me, as I have said already, and I 
would give you half a rouble above my own price — 
yes, I would, simply out of regard for you. . . .” 


The Steppe 199 


“No, Ivan Ivanitch.” Father Christopher 
sighed. ‘‘I thank you for your kindness. . . . Of 
course, if it were for me to decide, I shouldn’t think 
twice about it; but as it is, the wool is not mine, as 
vou know. ... .” 

Moisey Moisevitch came in on tiptoe. Trying 
from delicacy not to look at the heaps of money, he 
stole up to Yegorushka and pulled at his shirt from 
behind. 

“Come along, little gentleman,” he said in an 
undertone, ‘‘ come and see the little bear I can show 
you! Such a queer, cross little bear. Oo-oo!” 

The sleepy boy got up and listlessly dragged him- 
self after Moisey Moisevitch to see the bear. He 
went into a little room, where, before he saw any- 
thing, he felt he could not breathe from the smell of 
something sour and decaying, which was much 
stronger here than in the big room and probably 
spread from this room all over the house. One 
part of the room was occupied by a big bed, cov- 
ered with a greasy quilt and another by a chest of 
drawers and heaps of rags of all kinds from a wom- 
an’s stiff petticoat to children’s little breeches 
and braces. A tallow candle stood on the chest of 
drawers. 

Instead of the promised bear, Yegorushka saw a 
big fat Jewess with her hair hanging loose, in a red 
flannel skirt with black sprigs on it; she turned with 
dificulty in the narrow space between the bed and 
the chest of drawers and uttered drawn-out moaning 
as though she had toothache. On seeing Yego- 
rushka, she made a doleful, woe-begone face, heaved 
a long-drawn-out sigh, and before he had time to 


200 The Tales of Chekhov 


look round, put to his lips a slice of bread smeared 
with honey. 

‘Fat it, dearie, eat it!’’ she said. ‘‘ You are 
here without your mamma, and no one to look after 
you... att wp. 

Yegorushka did eat it, though after the goodies 
and poppy-cakes he had every day at home, he did 
not think very much of the honey, which was mixed 
with wax and bees’ wings. He ate while Moisey 
Moisevitch and the Jewess looked at him and sighed. 

‘“Where are you going, dearie?’’ asked the 
Jewess. 

‘To school,’ answered Yegorushka. 

‘“And how many brothers and sisters have you 
got?” 

‘“T am the only one; there are no others.” 

‘“O-oh!”’ sighed the Jewess, and turned her eyes 
upward. ‘‘Poor mamma, poor mamma! How 
she will weep and miss you! We are going to send 
our Nahum to school in a year. O-oh!” 

“Ah, Nahum, Nahum!”’ sighed Moisey Moise- 
vitch, and the skin of his pale face twitched nerv- 
ously. ‘‘ And he is so delicate.” 

The greasy quilt quivered, and from beneath it 
appeared a child’s curly head on a very thin neck; 
two black eyes gleamed and stared with curiosity at 
Yegorushka. Still sighing, Moisey Moisevitch 
and the Jewess went to the chest of drawers and 
began talking in Yiddish. Moisey Moisevitch spoke 
in a low bass undertone, and altogether his talk in 
Yiddish was like a continual “ ghaal-ghaal-ghaal- 
ghaal, . . .” while his wife answered him in a shrill 
voice like a turkeycock’s, and the whole effect of 


The Steppe 201 


her talk was something like ‘‘’Too-too-too-too!” 
While they were consulting, another little curly head 
on a thin neck peeped out of the greasy quilt, then a 
third, then a fourth. . . . If Yegorushka had had a 
fertile imagination he might have imagined that the 
hundred-headed hydra was hiding under the quilt. 

‘ Ghaal-ghaal-ghaal-ghaal!”’ said Moisey Moise- 
vitch. 

‘’ To0-too-too-too! ”’ answered the Jewess. 

The consultation ended in the Jewess’s diving 
with a deep sigh into the chest of drawers, and, 
unwrapping some sort of green rag there, she took 
out a big rye cake made in the shape of a heart. 

“Take it, dearie,” she said, giving Yegorushka 
the cake; ‘‘ you have no mamma now —no one to 
give you nice things.” 

Yegorushka stuck the cake in his pocket and stag- 
gered to the door, as he could not go on breathing 
the foul, sour air in which the innkeeper and his wife 
lived. Going back to the big room, he settled him- 
self more comfortably on the sofa and gave up try- 
ing to check his straying thoughts. 

As soon as Kuzmitchov had finished counting out 
the notes he put them back into the bag. He did 
not treat them very respectfully and stuffed them 
into the dirty sack without ceremony, as inditfer- 
ently as though they had not been money but waste 
paper. 

Father Christopher was talking to Solomon. 

“Well, Solomon the Wise!” he said, yawning 
and making the sign of the cross over his mouth. 
‘“ How is business? ”’ 

‘What sort of business are you talking about?” 


202 The Tales of Chekhov 
asked Solomon, and he looked as fiendish, as though 


it were a hint of some crime on his part. 

‘Oh, things in general. What are you doing?” 

‘“ What am IJ doing?”’ Solomon repeated, and he 
shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘ The same as everyone 
else. . . . You see, I ama menial, I am my brother’s 
servant; my brother’s the servant of the visitors; the 
visitors are Varlamov’s servants; and if I had ten 
millions, Varlamov would be my servant.” 

“Why would he be your servant?” 

‘Why, because there isn’t a gentleman or 
millionaire who isn’t ready to lick the hand of a 
scabby Jew for the sake of making a kopeck. Now, 
I am a scabby Jew and a beggar. Everybody looks 
at me as though I were a dog, but if I had money 
Varlamov would play the fool before me just as 
Moisey does before you.” 

Father Christopher and Kuzmitchov looked at 
each other. Neither of them understood Solomon. 
Kuzmitchoy looked at him sternly and dryly, and 
asked: 

“ How can you compare yourself with Varlamoy, 
you blockhead? ” 

‘“‘T am not such a fool as to put myself on a level 
with Varlamov,” answered Solomon, looking sarcas- 
tically at the speaker. ‘“‘ Though Varlamov is a 
Russian, he is at heart a scabby Jew; money and 
gain are all he lives for, but I threw my money in 
the stove! JI don’t want money, or land, or sheep, 
and there is no need for people to be afraid of me 
and to take off their hats when I pass. So I am 
wiser than your Varlamoy and more like a man!” 


A little later Yegorushka, half asleep, heard Solo- 


The Steppe 263 


mon in a hoarse hollow voice choked with hatred, in 
hurried stuttering phrases, talking about the Jews. 
At first he talked correctly in Russian, then he fell 
into the tone of a Je..ish recitation, and began speak- 
ing as he had done at the fair with an exaggerated 
Jewish accent. 

“Stop! .. .” Father Christopher said to him. 
“If you don’t like your religion you had better 
change it, but to laugh at it is a sin; it is only the 
lowest of the low who will make fun of his religion.” 

‘“ You don’t understand,’ Solomon cut him short 
rudely. “I am talking of one thing and you are 
talking of something else. . . .” 

““One can see you are a foolish fellow,” sighed 
Father Christopher. ‘‘I admonish you to the best 
of my ability, and you are angry. I speak to you 
like an old man quietly, and you answer like a turkey- 
cock: ‘Bla—bla—pbla!’ You really are a 
queer fellow. . . .” 

Moisey Moisevitch came in. He looked anx- 
iously at Solomon and at his visitors, and again the 
skin on his face quivered nervously. Yegorushka 
shook his head and looked about him; he caught a 
passing glimpse of Solomon’s face at the very mo- 
ment when it was turned three-quarters towards him 
and when the shadow of his long nose divided his 
left cheek in half; the contemptuous smile mingled 
with that shadow; the gleaming sarcastic eyes, the 
haughty expression, and the whole plucked-looking 
little figure, dancing and doubling itself before 
Yegorushka’s eyes, made him now not like a buffoon, 
but like something one sometimes dreams of, like 
an evil spirit. 


204 The Tales of Chekhov 


“What a ferocious fellow you've got here, 
Moisey Moisevitch! God bless him!” said Father 
Christopher with a smile. ‘‘ You ought to find him 
a place or a wife or something. . . . There’s no 
knowing what to make of him. . . .”’ 

Kuzmitchov frowned angrily. Moisey Moise- 
vitch looked uneasily and inquiringly at his brother 
and the visitors again. 

‘Solomon, go away!” he said shortly. ‘Go 
away!’’ and he added something in Yiddish. Solo- 
mon gave an abrupt laugh and went out. 

“What was it?” Moisey Moisevitch asked 
Father Christopher anxiously. 

“He forgets himself,” answered Kuzmitchov. 
‘He's rude and thinks too much of himself.” 

“ T knew it!’ Moisey Moisevitch cried in horror, 
clasping his hands. ‘Oh dear, oh dear!” he 
muttered in a low voice. ‘‘ Be so kind as to excuse 
it, and don’t be angry. He is such a queer fellow, 
such a queer fellow! Oh dear, oh dear! He is 
my own brother, but I have never had anything but 
trouble from him. You know he’s... .” 

Moisey Moisevitch crooked his finger by his fore- 
head and went on: 

“He is not in his right mind; ... he’s hope- 
less. And I don’t know what I am to do with him! 
He cares for nobody, he respects nobody, and is 
afraid of nobody. . . . You know he laughs at 
everybody, he says silly things, speaks familiarly to 
anyone. You wouldn’t believe it, Varlamov came 
here one day and Solomon said such things to him 
that he gave us both a taste of his whip. . . . But 
why whip me? Was it my fault? God has robbed 


The Steppe 205 


him of his wits, so it is God’s will, and how am I to 
blame?” 

Ten minutes passed and Moisey Moisevitch was 
still muttering in an undertone and sighing: 

“He does not sleep at night, and is always think- 
ing and thinking and thinking, and what he is think- 
ing about God only knows. If you go to him at 
night he is angry and laughs. He doesn’t like me 
either. . . . And there is nothing he wants! When 
our father died he left us each six thousand roubles. 
I bought myself an inn, married, and now I have 
children; and he burnt all his money in the stove. 
Such a pity, such a pity!.. Why burn it?, If he 
didn’t want it he could give it to me, but why burn 
rt a 

Suddenly the swing-door creaked and the floor 
shook under footsteps. Yegorushka felt a draught 
of cold air, and it seemed to him as though some big 
black bird had passed by him and had fluttered its 
wings close in his face. He opened his eyes. . . . 
His uncle was standing by the sofa with his sack in 
his hands ready for departure; Father Christopher, 
holding his broad-brimmed top-hat, was bowing to 
someone and smiling —not his usual soft kindly 
smile, but a respectful forced smile which did not 
suit his face at all— while Moisey Moisevitch 
looked as though his body had been broken into three 
parts, and he were balancing and doing his utmost 
not to drop to pieces. Only Solomon stood in the 
corner with his arms folded, as though nothing had 
happened, and smiled contemptuously as before. 

“Your Excellency must excuse us for not being 
tidy,” moaned Moisey Moisevitch with the agoniz- 


206 The Tales of Chekhov 


ingly sweet smile, taking no more notice of Kuz- 
mitchov or Father Christopher, but swaying his 
whole person so as to avoid dropping to pieces. 
‘We are plain folks, your Excellency.” 

Yegorushka rubbed his eyes. In the middle of 
the room there really was standing an Excellency, in 
the form of a young plump and very beautiful 
woman in a black dress and a straw hat. Before 
Yegorushka had time to examine her features the im- 
age of the solitary graceful poplar he had seen that 
day on the hill for some reason came into his mind. 

‘“Has Varlamov been here to-day?” a woman’s 
voice inquired. 

‘“No, your Excellency,” said Moisey Moisevitch. 

‘““If you see him to-morrow, ask him to come 
and see me for a minute.” 

All at once, quite unexpectedly, Yegorushka saw 
half an inch from his eyes velvety black eyebrows, 
big brown eyes, delicate feminine cheeks with 
dimples, from which smiles seemed radiating all over 
the face like sunbeams. There was a glorious scent. 

“What a pretty boy!” said the lady. ‘‘ Whose 
boy is it? Kazimir Mihalovitch, look what a 
charming fellow! Good heavens, he is asleep! ”’ 

And the lady kissed Yegorushka warmly on both 
cheeks, and he smiled and, thinking he was asleep, 
shut his eyes. ‘The swing-door squeaked, and there 
was the sound of hurried footsteps, coming in and 
going out. 

‘“Yegorushka, Yegorushka!”’ he heard two bass 
voices whisper. ‘‘ Get up; it is time to start.” 

Somebody, it seemed to be Deniska, set him on 
his feet and led him by the arm. On the way he 


The Steppe 207 


half-opened his eyes and once more saw the beautiful 
lady in the black dress who had kissed him. She 
was standing in the middle of the room and watched 
him go out, smiling at him and nodding her head 
in a friendly way. As he got near the door he saw 
a handsome, stoutly built, dark man in a bowler hat 
and in leather gaiters. [his must have been the 
lady’s escort. 

‘““Woa!’”’ he heard from the yard. 

At the front door Yegorushka saw a splendid 
new carriage and a pair of black horses. On the 
box sat a groom in livery, with a long whip in his 
hands. No one but Solomon came to see the 
travellers off. His face was tense with a desire to 
laugh; he looked as though he were waiting im- 
patiently for the visitors to be gone, so that he might 
laugh at them without restraint. 

“The Countess Dranitsky,” whispered Father 
Christopher, clambering into the chaise. 

“Yes, Countess Dranitsky,” repeated Kuz- 
mitchov, also in a whisper. 

The impression made by the arrival of the 
countess was probably very great, for even Deniska 
spoke in a whisper, and only ventured to lash his 
bays and shout when the chaise had driven a quarter 
of a mile away and nothing could be seen of the inn 
but a dim light. 


IV 


Who was this elusive, mysterious Varlamoy of 
whom people talked so much, whom Solomon de- 
spised, and whom even the beautiful countess 


208 The Tales of Chekhov 


needed? Sitting on the box beside Deniska, Yego- 
rushka, half asleep, thought about this person. He 
had never seen him. But he had often heard of him 
and pictured him in his imagination. He knew that 
Varlamov possessed several tens of thousands of 
acres of land, about a hundred thousand sheep, and 
a great deal of money. Of his manner of life and 
occupation Yegorushka knew nothing, except that 
he was always “‘ going his rounds in these parts,” 
and he was always being looked for. 

At home Yegorushka had heard a great deal of 
the Countess Dranitsky, too. She, too, had some 
tens of thousands of acres, a great many sheep, a 
stud farm and a great deal of money, but she did 
not “go rounds,” but lived at home in a splendid 
house and grounds, about which Ivan Ivanitch, who 
had been more than once at the countess’s on busi- 
ness, and other acquaintances told many marvellous 
tales; thus, for instance, they said that in the 
countess’s drawing-room, where the portraits of all 
the kings of Poland hung on the walls, there was a 
big table-clock in the form of a rock, on the rock a 
gold horse with diamond eyes, rearing, and on the 
horse the figure of a rider also of gold, who bran- 
dished his sword to right and to left whenever the 
clock struck. ‘They said, too, that twice a year the 
countess used to give a ball, to which the gentry and 
officials of the whole province were invited, and to 
which even Varlamov used to come; all the visitors 
drank tea from silver samovars, ate all sorts of ex- 
traordinary things (they had strawberries and rasp- 
berries, for instance, in winter at Christmas), and 
danced to a band which played day and night... . 


The Steppe 209 


‘““ And how beautiful she is,” thought Yegorushka, 
remembering her face and smile. 

Kuzmitchov, too, was probably thinking about 
the countess. For when the chaise had driven a 
mile and a half he said: 

‘But doesn’t that Kazimir Mihalovitch plunder 
her right and left! The year before last when, 
do you remember, I bought some wool from her, 
he made over three thousand from my purchase 
alone.” 

“That is just what you would expect from a 
Pole,” said Father Christopher. 

“And little does it trouble her. Young and 
foolish, as they say, her head is full of nonsense.” 

Yegorushka, for some reason, longed to think of 
nothing but Varlamov and the countess, particularly 
the latter. His drowsy brain utterly refused or- 
dinary thoughts, was in a cloud and retained only 
fantastic fairy-tale images, which have the advantage 
of springing into the brain of themselves without 
any effort on the part of the thinker, and completely 
vanishing of themselves at a mere shake of the 
head; and, indeed, nothing that was around him dis- 
posed to ordinary thoughts. On the right there 
were the dark hills which seemed to be screening 
something unseen and terrible; on the left the whole 
sky about the horizon was covered with a crimson 
glow, and it was hard to tell whether there was a fire 
somewhere, or whether it was the moon about to rise. 
As by day the distance could be seen, but its tender 
lilac tint had gone, quenched by the evening dark- 
ness, in which the whole steppe was hidden like 
Moisey Moisevitch’s children under the quilt. 


210 The Tales of Chekhov 


Corncrakes and quails do not call in the July 
nights, the nightingale does not sing in the wood- 
land marsh, and there is no scent of flowers, but 
still the steppe is lovely and full of life. As soon 
as the sun goes down and the darkness enfolds the 
earth, the day’s weariness is forgotten, everything 
is forgiven, and the steppe breathes a light sigh from 
its broad bosom. As though because the grass 
cannot see in the dark that it has grown old, a gay 
youthful twitter rises up from it, such as is not heard 
by day; chirruping, twittering, whistling, scratching, 
the basses, tenors and sopranos of the steppe all 
mingle in an incessant, monotonous roar of sound in 
which it is sweet to brood on memories and sorrows. 
The monotonous twitter soothes to sleep like a 
lullaby; you drive and feel you are falling asleep, 
but suddenly there comes the abrupt agitated cry of a 
wakeful bird, or a vague sound like a voice crying 
out in wonder ‘‘ A-ah, a-ah!”’ and slumber closes 
one’s eyelids again. Or you drive by a little creek 
where there are bushes and hear the bird, called by 
the steppe dwellers ‘“‘the sleeper,’ call “‘ Asleep, 
asleep, asleep!” while another laughs or breaks into 
trills of hysterical weeping — that is the owl. For 
whom do they call and who hears them on that plain, 
God only knows, but there is deep sadness and 
lamentation in their cry. . . . There is a scent of 
hay and dry grass and belated flowers, but the scent 
is heavy, sweetly mawkish and soft. 

Everything can be seen through the mist, but it is 
hard to make out the colours and the outlines of 
objects. Everything looks different from what it is. 
You drive on and suddenly see standing before you 


The Steppe 211 


right in the roadway a dark figure like a monk; it 
stands motionless, waiting, holding something in its 
hands. . . . Canitbearobber? ‘The figure comes 
closer, grows bigger; now it is on a level with the 
chaise, and you see it is not a man, but a solitary 
bush or a great stone. Such motionless expectant 
figures stand on the low hills, hide behind the old 
barrows, peep out from the high grass, and they all 
look like human beings and arouse suspicion. 

And when the moon rises the night becomes pale 
and dim. ‘The mist seems to have passed away. 
The air is transparent, fresh and warm; one can see 
well in all directions and even distinguish the sepa- 
rate stalks of grass by the wayside. Stones and bits 
of pots can be seen at a long distance. The sus- 
picious figures like monks look blacker against the 
light background of the night, and seem more 
sinister. More and more often in the midst of the 
monotonous chirruping there comes the sound of 
the “ A-ah, a-ah!”’ of astonishment troubling the 
motionless air, and the cry of a sleepless or delirious 
bird. Broad shadows move across the plain like 
clouds across the sky, and in the inconceivable dis- 
tance, if you look long and intently at it, misty 
monstrous shapes rise up and huddle one against 
another. . . . Itis rather uncanny. One glances at 
the pale green, star-spangled sky on which there is 
no cloudlet, no spot, and understands why the warm 
air is motionless, why nature is on her guard, afraid 
to stir: she is afraid and reluctant to lose one instant 
of life. Of the unfathomable depth and infinity of 
the sky one can only form a conception at sea and 
on the steppe by night when the moon is shining. 


212 The Tales of Chekhov 


It is terribly lonely and caressing; it looks down 
languid and alluring, and its caressing sweetness 
makes one giddy. 

You drive on for one hour, for a second... . 
You meet upon the way a silent old barrow or a 
stone figure put up God knows when and by whom; 
a nightbird floats noiselessly over the earth, and 
little by little those legends of the steppes, the tales 
of men you have met, the stories of some old nurse 
from the steppe, and all the things you have man- 
aged to see and treasure in your soul, come back to 
your mind. And then in the churring of insects, in 
the sinister figures, in the ancient barrows, in the 
blue sky, in the moonlight, in the flight of the night- 
bird, in everything you see and hear, triumphant 
beauty, youth, the fulness of power, and the passion- 
ate thirst for life begin to be apparent; the soul 
responds to the call of her lovely austere fatherland, 
and longs to fly over the steppes with the nightbird. 
And in the triumph of beauty, in the exuberance of 
happiness you are conscious of yearning and grief, 
as though the steppe knew she was solitary, knew 
that her wealth and her inspiration were wasted for 
the world, not glorified in song, not wanted by any- 
one; and through the joyful clamour one hears her 
mournful, hopeless call for singers, singers ! 

‘““Woa! Good-evening, Panteley! Is  every- 
thing all right?” 

‘“‘ First-rate, Ivan Ivanitch! ”’ 

‘‘Haven’t you seen Varlamoy, lads?” 

‘No, we haven’t.”’ 

Yegorushka woke up and opened his eyes. The 
chaise had stopped. On the right the train of wag- 


The Steppe 21:2 


gons stretched for a long way ahead on the road, and 
men were moving to and fro near them. All the 
waggons being loaded up with great bales of wool 
looked very high and fat, while the horses looked 
short-legged and little. 

‘Well, then, we shall go on to the Molokans’! ” 
Kuzmitchov said aloud. ‘‘ The Jew told us that 
Varlamov was putting up for the night at the Molo- 
kans’. So good-bye, lads! Good luck to you!” 

‘* Good-bye, Ivan Ivanitch,”’ several voices replied. 

‘“‘T say, lads,’ Kuzmitchov cried briskly, ‘ you 
‘take my little lad along with you! Why should he 
go jolting off with us for nothing? You put him 
on the bales, Panteley, and let him come on slowly, 
and we shall overtake you. Get down, Yegor! 
Goon; it’s all right. '.\....”’ 

Yegorushka got down from the box-seat. Sev- 
eral hands caught him, lifted him high into the air, 
and he found himself on something big, soft, and 
rather wet with dew. It seemed to him now as 
though the sky were quite close and the earth far 
away. 

‘““Hey, take his little coat!’’ Deniska shouted 
from somewhere far below. 

His coat and bundle flung up from far below fell 
close to Yegorushka. Anxious not to think of any- 
thing, he quickly put his bundle under his head and 
covered himself with his coat, and stretching his 
legs out and shrinking a little from the dew, he 
laughed with content. 

‘Sleep, sleep, sleep, . . .”’ he thought. 

‘Don’t be unkind to him, you devils!’ he heard 
Deniska’s voice below. 


214 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘* Good-bye, lads; good luck to you,” shouted Kuz- 
mitchov. “I rely upon you! ”’ 

‘Don’t you be uneasy, Ivan Ivanitch! ” 

Deniska shouted to the horses, the chaise creaked 
and started, not along the road, but somewhere off 
to the side. For two minutes there was silence, as 
though the waggons were asleep and there was no 
sound except the clanking of the pails tied on at the 
back of the chaise as it slowly died away in the dis- 
tance. Then someone at the head of the waggons 
shouted: 

‘“Kiruha! Sta-art!”’ 

The foremost of the waggons creaked, then the 
second, then the third. . . . Yegorushka felt the 
waggon he was on sway and creak also. ‘The wag- 
gons were moving. Yegorushka took a tighter hold 
of the cord with which the bales were tied on, 
laughed again with content, shifted the cake in his 
pocket, and fell asleep just as he did in his bed at 
home?'\../. 2 

When he woke up the sun had risen, it was 
screened by an ancient barrow, and, trying to shed its 
light upon the earth, it scattered its beams in all 
directions and flooded the horizon with gold. It 
seemed to Yegorushka that it was not in its proper 
place, as the day before it had risen behind his back, 
and now it was much more to his left. . . . And the 
whole landscape was different. There were no hills 
now, but on all sides, wherever one looked, there 
stretched the brown cheerless plain; here and there 
upon it small barrows rose up and rooks flew as 
they had done the day before. The belfries and 
huts of some village showed white in the distance 


The Steppe a 6 


ahead; as it was Sunday the Little Russians were 
at home baking and cooking — that could be seen 
by the smoke which rose from every chimney and 
hung, a dark blue transparent veil, over the village. 
In between the huts and beyond the church there 
were blue glimpses of a river, and beyond the river a 
misty distance. But nothing was so different from 
yesterday as the road. Something extraordinarily 
broad, spread out and titanic, stretched over the 
steppe by way of aroad. It was a grey streak well 
trodden down and covered with dust, like all roads. 
Its width puzzled Yegorushka and brought thoughts 
of fairy tales to his mind. Who travelled along 
that road? Who needed so much space? It was 
strange and unintelligible. It might have been sup- 
posed that giants with immense strides, such as Ilya 
Muromets and Solovy the Brigand, were still sur- 
viving in Russia, and that their gigantic steeds were 
still alive. Yegorushka, looking at the road, 
imagined some half a dozen high chariots racing 
along side by side, like some he used to see in pictures 
in his Scripture history; these chariots were each 
drawn by six wild furious horses, and their great 
wheels raised a cloud of dust to the sky, while the 
horses were driven by men such as one may see in 
one’s dreams or in imagination brooding over fairy 
tales. And if those figures had existed, how per- 
fectly in keeping with the steppe and the road they 
would have been! 

Telegraph-poles with two wires on them stretched 
along the right side of the road to its furthermost 
limit. Growing smaller and smaller they disap- 
peared near the village behind the huts and green 


216 The Tales of Chekhov 


trees, and then again came into sight in the lilac 
distance in the form of very small thin sticks that 
looked like pencils stuck into the ground. Hawks, 
falcons, and crows sat on the wires and looked in- 
differently at the moving waggons. 

Yegorushka was lying in the last of the waggons, 
and so could see the whole string. There were 
about twenty waggons, and there was a driver to 
every three waggons. By the last waggon, the one 
in which Yegorushka was, there walked an old man 
with a grey beard, as short and lean as Father Chris- 
topher, but with a sunburnt, stern and brooding face. 
It is very possible that the old man was not stern and 
not brooding, but his red eyelids and his sharp long 
nose gave his face a stern frigid expression such as 
is common with people in the habit of continually 
thinking of serious things in solitude. Like Father 
Christopher he was wearing a wide-brimmed top- 
hat, not like a gentleman’s, but made of brown felt, 
and in shape more like a cone with the top cut off 
than areal top-hat. Probably from a habit acquired 
in cold winters, when he must more than once have 
been nearly frozen as he trudged beside the wag- 
gons, he kept slapping his thighs and stamping with 
his feet as he walked. Noticing that Yegorushka 
was awake, he looked at him and said, shrugging 
his shoulders as though from the cold: 

‘‘ Ah, you are awake, youngster! So you are the 
son of Ivan Ivanitch? ”’ 

‘“ No; his nephew. .. . 

‘“‘ Nephew of Ivan Ivanitch? Here I have taken 
off my boots and am hopping along barefoot. My 
feet are bad; they are swollen, and it’s easier without 


” s 


The Steppe 217 


my boots... easier, youngster . . . without 
boots, mean. . . . So you are his nephew? He is 
a good man; no harm in him. . . . God give him 
health. . . . No harm in him. . . I mean Ivan 
Ivanitch. . . . He has gone to the Molokans’. . . . 


O Lord, have mercy upon us!” 

The old man talked, too, as though it were very 
cold, pausing and not opening his mouth properly; 
and he mispronounced the labial consonants, stutter- 
ing over them as though his lips were frozen. As 
he talked to Yegorushka he did not once smile, and 
he seemed stern. 

Two waggons ahead of them there walked a man 
wearing a long reddish-brown coat, a cap and high 
boots with sagging bootlegs and carrying a whip 
in his hand. This was not an old man, only about 
forty. When he looked round Yegorushka saw a 
long red face with a scanty goat-beard and a spongy 
looking swelling under his right eye. Apart from 
this very ugly swelling, there was another peculiar 
thing about him which caught the eye at once: in his 
left hand he carried a whip, while he waved the right 
as though he were conducting an unseen choir; from 
time to time he put the whip under his arm, and then 
he conducted with both hands and hummed some- 
thing to himself. 

The next driver was a long rectilinear figure with 
extremely sloping shoulders and a back as flat as a 
board. He held himself as stiffly erect as though 
he were marching or had swallowed a yard measure. 
His hands did not swing as he walked, but hung 
down as if they were straight sticks, and he strode 
along in a wooden way, after the manner of toy 


218 The Tales of Chekhov 


soldiers, almost without bending his knees, and try- 
ing to take as long steps as possible. While the 
old man or the owner of the spongy swelling were 
taking two steps he succeeded in taking only one, 
and so it seemed as though he were walking more 
slowly than any of them, and would drop behind. 
His face was tied up in a rag, and on his head some- 
thing stuck up that looked like a monk’s peaked 
cap; he was dressed in a, short Little Russian coat, 
with full dark blue trousers and bark shoes. 

Yegorushka did not even distinguish those that 
were farther on. He lay on his stomach, picked a 
little hole in the bale, and, having nothing better to 
do, began twisting the wool into a thread. The 
old man trudging along below him turned out not 
to be so stern as one might have supposed from his 
face. Having begun a conversation, he did not let 
it drop. 

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, stamping with 
his feet. 

‘To school,” answered Yegorushka. 

“To school? \Ahaly.. . Well; mays then@uces 
of Heaven help you. Yes. One brain is good, but 
two are better. To one man God gives one brain, 
to another two brains, and to another three... . 
To another three, that is true. . . . One brain you 
are born with, one you get from learning, and a third 
with a good life. So you see, my lad, it is a good 
thing if a man has three brains. Living is easier 
for him, and, what’s more, dying is, too. Dying is, 
too. . . . And we shall all die for sure.”’ 

The old man scratched his forehead, glanced up- 
wards at Yegorushka with his red eyes, and went on: 


The Steppe 219 


“ Maxim Nikolaitch, the gentleman from Slay- 
yanoserbsk, brought a little lad to school, too, last 
year. I don’t know how he is getting on there in 
studying the sciences, but he was a nice good little 
lad. . . . God give them help, they are nice gentle- 
men. Yes, he, too, brought his boy to school. . . . 
In Slavyanoserbsk there is no establishment, I sup- 
pose, for study. No. ... But it is a nice town. 
. . . There’s an ordinary, school for simple folks, 
but for the higher studies there is nothing. No, 
that’s true. What's yourname?.. .” 

“© Yegorushka.”’ 

‘““Yegory, then. . . . The holy martyr Yegory, 
the Bearer of Victory, whose day is the twenty-third 
of April. And my christian name is Panteley, . . . 
Panteley Zaharov Holodov. . . . We are Holo- 
dovs. . . . I ama native of — maybe you've heard 
of it — Tim in the province of Kursk. My brothers 
are artisans and work at trades in the town, but I 
am a peasant. ... I have remained a peasant. 
Seven years ago I went there — home, I mean. I 
went to the village and to the town. . . . To Tim, 
I mean. Then, thank God, they were all alive and 
well; «buti nows l, don’t . know., 2) .)\... Maybe 
some of them are dead. . . . And it’s time they 
did die, for some of them are older than I am. 
Death is all right; it is good so long, of course, as 
one does not die without repentance. There is no 
worse evil than an impenitent death; an impenitent 
death is a joy to the devil. And if you want to die 
penitent, so that you may not be forbidden to enter 
the mansions of the Lord, pray to the holy martyr 
Varvara. She is the intercessor. She is, that’s the 


220 The Tales of Chekhov 


truth. . . . For God has given her such a place in 
the heavens that everyone has the right to pray to 
her for penitence.” 

Panteley went on muttering, and apparently did 
not trouble whether Yegorushka heard him or not. 
He talked listlessly, mumbling to himself, without 
raising or dropping his voice, but succeeded in telling 
him a great deal in a short time. All he said was 
made up of fragments that had very little connection 
with one another, and quite uninteresting for Yego- 
rushka. Possibly he talked only in order to reckon 
over his thoughts aloud after the night spent in 
silence, in order to see if they were all there. After 
talking of repentance, he spoke about a certain 
Maxim Nikolaitch from Slavyanoserbsk. 

“Yes, he took his little lad; . . . he took him, 
Ghats true? s 2071 

One of the waggoners walking in front darted 
from his place, ran to one side and began lashing 
on the ground with his whip. He was a stalwart, 
broad-shouldered man of thirty, with curly flaxen 
hair and a look of great health and vigour. Judg- 
ing from the movements of his shoulders and the 
whip, and the eagerness expressed in his attitude, 
he was beating something alive. Another wag- 
goner, a short stubby little man with a bushy black 
beard, wearing a waistcoat and a shirt outside his 
trousers, ran up to him. ‘The latter broke into a 
deep guffaw of laughter and coughing and said: “I 
say, lads, Dymov has killed a snake! ”’ 

There are people whose intelligence can be gauged 
at once by their voice and laughter. The man with 
the black beard belonged to that class of fortunate 


The Steppe 221 


individuals; impenetrable stupidity could be felt in 
his voice and laugh. The flaxen-headed Dymov had 
finished, and lifting from the ground with his whip 
something like a cord, flung it with a laugh into the 
cart. 

‘“That’s not a viper; it’s a grass snake! ”’ shouted 
someone. 

The man with the wooden gait and the bandage 
round his face strode up quickly to the dead snake, 
glanced at it and flung up his stick-like arms. 

“You jail-bird!”’ he cried in a hollow wailing 
voice. ‘‘ What have you killed a grass snake for? 
What had he done to you, you damned brute? 
Look, he has killed a grass snake; how would you 
like to be treated so?” 

‘‘ Grass snakes ought not to be killed, that’s true,” 
Panteley muttered placidly, “‘ they ought not. . . 
They are not vipers; though it looks like a snake, 
it is a gentle, innocent creature. . . . It’s friendly 
to man, the grass snake is.” 

Dymovy and the man with the black beard were 
probably ashamed, for they laughed loudly, and not 
answering, slouched lazily back to their waggons. 
When the hindmost waggon was level with the spot 
where the dead snake lay, the man with his face tied 
up standing over it turned to Panteley and asked in 
a tearful voice: 

“‘ Grandfather, what did he want to kill the grass 
snake for?” 

His eyes, as Yegorushka saw now, were small 
and dingy looking; his face was grey, sickly and 
looked somehow dingy too while his chin was red 
and seemed very much swollen. 


322 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘’ Grandfather, what did he kill it for?” he re- 
peated, striding along beside Panteley. 

‘“ A stupid fellow. His hands itch to kill, and 
that is why he does it,”’ answered the old man; “ but 
he oughtn’t to kill a grass snake, that’s true... . 
Dymov is a ruffian, we all know, he kills everything 
he comes across, and Kiruha did not interfere. He 
ought to have taken its part, but instead of that, he 
goes off into ‘ Ha-ha-ha!’ and ‘Ho-ho-ho!’... 
But don’t be angry, Vassya. . . . Why be angry? 
They’ve killed it — well, never mind them. Dymov 
is a rufhan and Kiruha acted from foolishness — 
never mind. . . . They are foolish people without 
understanding — but there, don’t mind them. 
Emelyan here never touches what he shouldn’t; 
Jlosthe inevers'doess ©)... thatinis true, GAPE? Dee 
cause he is a man of education, while they are stupid. 
. . . Emelyan, he doesn’t touch things.” 

The waggoner in the reddish-brown coat and the 
spongy swelling on his face, who was conducting an 
unseen choir, stopped. Hearing his name, and wait- 
ing till Panteley and Vassya came up to him, he 
walked beside them. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked in a 
husky muffled voice. 

‘“Why, Vassya here is angry,’ said Panteley. 
‘“So I have been saying things to him to stop his 
being angry. . . . Oh, how my swollen feet hurt! 
Oh, oh! They are more inflamed than ever for 
Sunday, God’s holy day!” 

“It’s from walking,” observed Vassya. 

‘No, lad, no. It’s not from walking. When I 


The Steppe 222 


walk it seems easier; when I lie down and get warm, 
. it’s deadly. Walking is easier for me.” 

Emelyan, ix his reddish-brown coat, walked be- 
tween Panteley and Vassya and waved his arms, as 
though they were going to sing. After waving them 
a little while he dropped them, and croaked out 
hopelessly : 

‘““T have no voice. It’s a real misfortune. All 
last night and this morning I have been haunted by 
the trio ‘Lord, have Mercy’ that we sang at the 
wedding at Marionovsky’s. It’s in my head and 
in my throat. It seems as though I could sing it, 
but I can’t; I have no voice.” 

He paused for a minute, thinking, then went on: 

‘For fifteen years I was inthe choir. In all the 
Lugansky works there was, maybe, no one with a 
voice like mine. But, confound it, I bathed two 
years ago in the Donets, and I can’t get a single 
note true ever since. I took cold in my throat. 
And without a voice I am like a workman without 
hands.” 

‘“That’s true,” Panteley agreed. 

‘“T think of myself as a ruined man and nothing 
more.” 

At that moment Vassya chanced to catch sight 
of Yegorushka. His eyes grew moist and smaller 
than ever. 

‘There’s a little gentleman driving with us,” and 
he covered his nose with his sleeve as though he 
were bashful. ‘“‘ What a grand driver! Stay with 
us and you shall drive the waggons and sell wool.” 

The incongruity of one person being at once a 


224 The Tales of Chekhov 


little gentleman and a waggon driver seemed to 
strike him as very queer and funny, for he burst 
into a loud guffaw, and went on enlarging upon 
the idea. Emelyan glanced upwards at Yegorushka, 
too, but coldly and cursorily. He was absorbed in 
his own thoughts, and had it not been for Vassya, 
would not have noticed Yegorushka’s presence. 
Before five minutes had passed he was waving his 
arms again, then describing to his companions the 
beauties of the wedding anthem, ‘“ Lord, have 
Mercy,” which he had remembered in the night. 
He put the whip under his arm and waved both 
hands. 

A mile from the village the waggons stopped 
by a well with a crane. Letting his pail down into 
the well, black-bearded Kiruha lay on his stomach 
on the framework and thrust his shaggy head, his 
shoulders, and part of his chest into the black hole, 
so that Yegorushka could see nothing but his short 
legs, which scarcely touched the ground. Seeing the 
reflection of his head far down at the bottom of the 
well, he was delighted and went off into his deep 
bass stupid laugh, and the echo from the well an- 
swered him. When he got up his neck and face 
were as red as beetroot. The first to run up and 
drink was Dymov. He drank laughing, often turn- 
ing from the pail to tell Kiruha something funny, 
then he turned round, and uttered aloud, to be heard 
all over the steppe, five very bad words. Yego- 
rushka did not understand the meaning of such words, 
but he knew very well they were bad words. He 
knew the repulsion his friends and relations silently 
felt for such words. He himself, without knowing 


The Steppe D195 


why, shared that feeling and was accustomed to 
think that only drunk and disorderly people enjoy 
the privilege of uttering such words aloud. He re- 
membered the murder of the grass snake, listened 
to Dymov’s laughter, and felt something like hatred 
for the man. And as ill-luck would have it, Dymov 
at that moment caught sight of Yegorushka, who 
had climbed down from the waggon and gone up to 
the well. He laughed aloud and shouted: 

‘““T say, lads, the old man has been brought to 
bed of a boy in the night! ” 

Kiruha laughed his bass laugh till he coughed. 
Someone else laughed too, while Yegorushka crim- 
soned and made up his mind finally that Dymov was 
a very wicked man. 

With his curly flaxen head, with his shirt opened 
on his chest and no hat on, Dymov looked handsome 
and exceptionally strong; in every movement he 
made one could see the reckless dare-devil and 
athlete, knowing his value. He _ shrugged his 
shoulders, put his arms akimbo, talked and laughed 
louder than any of the rest, and looked as though he 
were going to lift up something very heavy with one 
hand and astonish the whole world by doing so. 
His mischievous mocking eyes glided over the road, 
the waggons, and the sky without resting on any- 
thing, and seemed looking for someone to kill, just 
as a pastime, and something to laugh at. Evidently 
he was afraid of no one, would stick at nothing, and 
most likely was not in the least interested in Yego- 
rushka’s opinion of him. . . . Yegorushka mean- 
while hated his flaxen head, his clear face, and his 
strength with his whole heart, listened with fear and 


226 The Tales of Chekhov 


loathing to his laughter, and kept thinking what 
word of abuse he could pay him out with. 

Panteley, too, went up to the pail. He took out 
of his pocket a little green glass of an ikon lamp, 
wiped it with a rag, filled it from the pail and drank 
from it, then filled it again, wrapped the little glass 
in the rag, and then put it back into his pocket. 

‘“ Grandfather, why do you drink out of a lamp?” 
Yegorushka asked him, surprised. 

‘“One man drinks out of a pail and another out 
of a lamp,’ the old man answered evasively. 
‘“Every man to his own taste. . . . You drink out 
of the pail — well, drink, and may it do you 
good. . 

a You davies you beauty!” Vassya said sud- 
denly, in a caressing, plaintive voice. ‘ You 
darling!” 

His eyes were fixed on the distance; they were 
moist and smiling, and his face wore the same ex- 
pression as when he had looked at Yegorushka. 

‘Who is it you are talking to?’ asked Kiruha. 

‘A darling fox, . . . lying on her back, playing 
like a dog.” 

Everyone began staring into the distance, looking 
for the fox, but no one could see it, only Vassya with 
his grey muddy-looking eyes, and he was enchanted 
by it. His sight was extraordinarily keen, as Yego- 
rushka learnt afterwards. He was so long-sighted 
that the brown steppe was for him always full of: 
life and interest. He had only to look into the 
distance to see a fox, a hare, a bustard, or some 
other animal keeping at a distance from men. 
There was nothing strange in seeing a hare running 


The Steppe 227 


away or a flying bustard — everyone crossing the 
steppes could see them; but it was not vouchsafed to 
everyone to see wild animals in their own haunts 
when they were not running nor hiding, nor looking 
about them in alarm. Yet Vassya saw foxes play- 
ing, hares washing themselves with their paws, 
bustards preening their wings and hammering out 
their hollow nests. Thanks to this keenness of 
sight, Vassya had, besides the world seen by every- 
one, another world of his own, accessible to no one 
else, and probably a very beautiful one, for when 
he saw something and was in raptures over it it was 
impossible not to envy him. 

When the waggons set off again, the church bells 
were ringing for service. 


Vv 


The train of waggons drew up on the bank of 
a river on one side of a village. The sun was 
blazing, as it had been the day before; the air was 
stagnant and depressing. There were a few willows 
on the bank, but the shade from them did not fall 
on the earth, but on the water, where it was wasted; 
even in the shade under the waggon it was stifling 
and wearisome. The water, blue from the reflection 
of the sky in it, was alluring. 

Styopka, a waggoner whom Yegorushka noticed 
now for the first time, a Little Russian lad of 
eighteen, in a long shirt without a belt, and full 
trousers that flapped like flags as he walked, un- 
dressed quickly, ran along the steep bank and 


228 The Tales of Chekhov 


plunged into the water. He dived three times, then 
swam on his back and shut his eyes in his delight. 
His face was smiling and wrinkled up as though he 
were being tickled, hurt and amused. 

On a hot day when there is nowhere to escape 
from the sultry, stifling heat, the splash of water 
and the loud breathing of a man bathing sounds 
like good music to the ear. Dymov and Kiruha, 
looking at Styopka, undressed quickly and one after 
the other, laughing loudly in eager anticipation of 
their enjoyment, dropped into the water, and the 
quiet, modest little river resounded with snorting and 
splashing and shouting. Kiruha coughed, laughed 
and shouted as though they were trying to drown 
him, while Dymov chased him and tried to catch him 
by the leg. 

‘“ Ha-ha-ha!” he shouted. ‘‘ Catch him! Hold 
him!” 

Kiruha laughed and enjoyed himself, but his ex- 
pression was the same as it had been on dry land, - 
stupid, with a look of astonishment on it as though 
someone had, unnoticed, stolen up behind him and 
hit him on the head with the butt-end of an axe. 
Yegorushka undressed, too, but did not let himself 
down by the bank, but took a run and a flying leap 
from the height of about ten feet. Describing an 
arc in the air, he fell into the water, sank deep, but 
did not reach the bottom; some force, cold and 
pleasant to the touch, seemed to hold him up and 
bring him back to the surface. He popped out and, 
snorting and blowing bubbles, opened his eyes; but 
the sun was reflected in the water quite close to his 
face. At first blinding spots of light, then rainbow 


The Steppe 229 


colours and dark patches, flitted before his eyes. 
He made haste to dive again, opened his eyes in the 
water and saw something cloudy-green like a sky on 
a moonlight night. Again the same force would 
not let him touch the bottom and stay in the cool- 
ness, but lifted him to the surface. He popped out 
and heaved a sigh so deep that he had a feeling of 
space and freshness, not only in his chest, but in 
his stomach. Then, to get from the water every- 
thing he possibly could get, he allowed himself every 
luxury; he lay on his back and basked, splashed, 
frolicked, swam on his face, on his side, on his back 
and standing up — just as he pleased till he was ex- 
hausted. The other bank was thickly overgrown 
with reeds; it was golden in the sun, and the flowers 
of the reeds hung drooping to the water in lovely 
tassels. In one place the reeds were shaking and 
nodding, with their flowers rustling — Styopka and 
Kiruha were hunting crayfish. 

“A crayfish, look, lads! A crayfish! ’’ Kiruha 
cried triumphantly and actually showed a crayfish. 

Yegorushka swam up to the reeds, dived, and 
began fumbling among their roots. Burrowing in 
the slimy, liquid mud, he felt something sharp and 
unpleasant — perhaps it really was a crayfish. But 
at that minute someone seized him by the leg and 
pulled him to the surface. Spluttering and cough- 
ing, Yegorushka opened his eyes and saw before 
him the wet grinning face of the dare-devil Dymov. 
The impudent fellow was breathing hard, and from 
a look in his eyes he seemed inclined for further mis- 
chief. He held Yegorushka tight by the leg, and 
was lifting his hand to take hold of his neck. But 


230 The Tales of Chekhov 


Yegorushka tore himself away with repulsion and 
terror, as though disgusted at being touched and 
afraid that the bully would drown him, and said: 

“Fool! Tl punch you in the face.” 

Feeling that this was not sufficient to express his 
hatred, he thought a minute and added: 

“You blackguard! You son of a bitch! ” 

But Dymoy, as though nothing were the matter, 
took no further notice of Yegorushka, but swam off 
to Kiruha, shouting: 

“Ffa-ha-ha! Let us catch fish! Mates, let us 
catch fish.”’ 

“To be sure,’ Kiruha agreed; “‘ there must be a 
lot of fish here.” 

‘“Styopka, run to the village and ask the peasants 
for’anet !*” 

“They won’t give it to me.” 

“They will, you ask them. ‘Teli them that they 
should give it to us for Christ’s sake, because we 
are just the same as pilgrims.” 

cebhat’s true.” 

Styopka clambered out of the water, dressed 
quickly, and without a cap on he ran, his full trousers 
flapping, to the village. The water lost all its charm 
for Yegorushka after his encounter with Dymoy. 
He got out and began dressing. Panteley and 
Vassya were sitting on the steep bank, with their 
legs hanging down, looking at the bathers. Emelyan 
was standing naked, up to his knees in the water, 
holding on to the grass with one hand to prevent 
himself from falling while the other stroked his 
body. With his bony shoulder-blades, with the 
swelling under his eye, bending down and evidently 


~ 


The Steppe $2241 


afraid of the water, he made a ludicrous figure. 
His face was grave and severe. He looked angrily 
at the water, as though he were just going to up- 
braid it for having given him cold in the Donets and 
robbed him of his voice. 

“And why don’t you bathe?”’ Yegorushka asked 
Vassya. 

“Oh, I don’t care for it, . . .”’ answered Vassya. 

‘“’ How is it your chin is swollen?” 

“It’s bad. ... I used to work at the match 
factory, little sir. . . . The doctor used to say that 
it would make my jaw rot. The air is not healthy 
there. There were three chaps beside me who had 
their jaws swollen, and with one of them it rotted 
away altogether.” 

Styopka soon came back with the net. Dymov 
and Kiruha were already turning blue and getting 
hoarse by being so long in the water, but they set 
about fishing eagerly. First they went to a deep 
place beside the reeds; there Dymov was up to his 
neck, while the water went over squat Kiruha’s head. 
The latter spluttered and blew bubbles, while Dymov 
stumbling on the prickly roots, fell over and got 
caught in the net; both flopped about in the water, 
and made a noise, and nothing but mischief came of 
their fishing. 

“It’s deep,” croaked Kiruha. ‘‘ You won’t catch 
anything.” 

“Don’t tug, you devil!’ shouted Dymov trying 
to put the net in the proper position. ‘“ Hold it 


up.” 
“You won't catch anything here,’ Panteley 
shouted from the bank. ‘‘ You are only frighten- 


’ 


222 The Tales of Chekhov 


ing the fish, you stupids! Go more to the left! 
It’s shallower there!” 

Once a big fish gleamed above the net; they all 
drew a breath, and Dymov struck the place where 
it had vanished with his fist, and his face expressed 
vexation. 

‘““Ugh!” cried Panteley, and he stamped his foot. 
‘** 'You’ve let the perch slip! It’s gone!” 

Moving more to the left, Dymov and Kiruha 
picked out a shallower place, and then fishing began 
in earnest. [hey had wandered off some hundred 
paces from the waggons; they could be seen silently 
trying to go as deep as they could and as near the 
reeds, moving their legs a little at a time, drawing 
out the nets, beating the water with their fists to 
drive them towards the nets. From the reeds they 
got to the further bank; they drew the net out, then, 
with a disappointed air, lifting their knees high as 
they walked, went back into the reeds. They were 
talking about something, but what it was no one 
could hear. ‘The sun was scorching their backs, the 
flies were stinging them, and their bodies had turned 
from purple to crimson. Styopka was walking after 
them with a pail in his hands; he had tucked his 
shirt right up under his armpits, and was holding 
it up by the hem with his teeth. After every suc- 
cessful catch he lifted up some fish, and letting it 
shine in the sun, shouted: 

‘Look at this perch! We've five like that!” 

Every time Dymoy, Kiruha and Styopka pulled 
out the net they could be seen fumbling about in the 
mud in it, putting some things into the pail and 
throwing other things away; sometimes they passed 


The Steppe 233 


something that was in the net from hand to hand, 
examined it inquisitively, then threw that, too, away. 

‘What is it?” they shouted to them from the 
bank. 

Styopka made some answer, but it was hard to 
make out his words. Then he climbed out of the 
water and, holding the pail in both hands, forgetting 
to let his shirt drop, ran to the waggons. 

“It’s full!’ he shouted, breathing hard. ‘‘ Give 
us another!” 

Yegorushka looked into the pail: it was full. A 
young pike poked its ugly nose out of the water, and 
there were swarms of crayfish and little fish round 
about it. Yegorushka put his hand down to the bot- 
tom and stirred up the water; the pike vanished un- 
der the crayfish and a perch and a tench swam to the 
surface instead of it. Vassya, too, looked into the 
pail. His eyes grew moist and his face looked as ca- 
ressing as before when he saw the fox. He took 
something out of the pail, put it to his mouth and be- 
gan chewing it. 

“Mates,” said Styopka in amazement, “‘ Vassya 
is eating a live gudgeon! Phoo!” 

‘““Tt’s not a gudgeon, but a minnow,” Vassya an- 
swered calmly, still munching. 

He took a fish’s tail out of his mouth, looked 
at it caressingly, and put it back again. While he 
was chewing and crunching with his teeth it seemed 
to Yegorushka that he saw before him something 
not human. Vassya’s swollen chin, his lustreless 
eyes, his extraordinary sharp sight, the fish’s tail in 
his mouth, and the caressing friendliness with which 
he crunched the gudgeon made him like an animal. 


234 The Tales of Chekhov 


Yegorushka felt dreary beside him. And the fish- 
ing was over, too. He walked about beside the 
waggons, thought a little, and, feeling bored, strolled 
off to the village. 

Not long afterwards he was standing in the 
church, and with his forehead leaning on some- 
body’s back, listened to the singing of the choir. 
The service was drawing to a close. Yegorushka 
did not understand church singing and did not care 
for it. He listened a little, yawned, and began look- 
ing at the backs and heads before him. In one head, 
red and wet from his recent bathe, he recognized 
Emelyan. ‘The back of his head had been cropped 
in a straight line higher than is usual; the hair in 
front had been cut unbecomingly high, and Emel- 
yan’s ears stood out like two dock leaves, and seemed 
to feel themselves out of place. Looking at the 
back of his head and his ears, Yegorushka, for some 
reason, thought that Emelyan was probably very 
unhappy. He remembered the way he conducted 
with his hands, his husky voice, his timid air when 
he was bathing, and felt intense pity for him. He 
longed to say something friendly to him. 

‘“T am here, too,” he said, putting out his hand. 

People who sing tenor or bass in the choir, es- 
pecially those who have at any time in their lives 
conducted, are accustomed to look with a stern and 
unfriendly air at boys. They do not give up this 
habit, even when they leave off being in a choir. 
Turning to Yegorushka, Emelyan looked at him 
from under his brows and said: 

‘Don’t play in church! ” 

Then Yegorushka moved forwards nearer to the 


The Steppe P1005 


ikon-stand. Here he saw interesting people. On 
the right side, in front of everyone, a lady and a 
gentleman were standing on a carpet. There were 
chairs behind them. The gentleman was wearing 
newly ironed shantung trousers; he stood as motion- 
less as a soldier saluting, and held high his bluish 
shaven chin. ‘There was a very great air of dig- 
nity in his stand-up collar, in his blue chin, in his 
small bald patch and his cane. His neck was so 
strained from excess of dignity, and his chin was 
drawn up so tensely, that it looked as though his 
head were ready to fly off and soar upwards any 
minute. The lady, who was stout and elderly and 
wore a white silk shawl, held her head on one side 
and looked as though she had done someone a fa- 
vour, and wanted to say: ‘‘ Oh, don’t trouble your- 
self to thank me; I don’t like it. . . .’ A thick wall 
of Little Russian heads stood all round the carpet. 
Yegorushka went up to the ikon-stand and began 
kissing the local ikons. Before each image he 
slowly bowed down to the ground, without getting 
up, looked round at the congregation, then got up 
and kissed the ikon. The contact of his forehead 
with the cold floor afforded him great satisfaction. 
When the beadle came from the altar with a pair of 
long snuffers to put out the candles, Yegorushka 
jumped up quickly from the floor and ran up to him. 
‘ Have they given out the holy bread? ”’ he asked. 
‘“‘ There is none; there is none,’’ the beadle mut- 
tered grufly. “It is no use your...” 
The service was over; Yegorushka walked out of 
the church in a leisurely way, and began strolling 
about the market-place. He had seen a good many 


236 The Tales of Chekhov 


villages, market-places, and peasants in his time, and 
everything that met his eyes was entirely without 
interest for him. At a loss for something to do, he 
went into a shop over the door of which hung a wide 
strip of red cotton. ‘The shop consisted of two 
roomy, badly lighted parts; in one half they sold 
drapery and groceries, in the other there were tubs 
of tar, and there were horse-collars hanging from 
the ceiling; from both came the savoury smell of 
leather and tar. The floor of the shop had been 
watered; the man who watered it must have been a 
very whimsical and original person, for it was sprin- 
kled in patterns and mysterious symbols. The shop- 
keeper, an overfed-looking man with a broad face 
and round beard, apparently a Great Russian, was 
standing, leaning his person over the counter. He 
was nibbling a piece of sugar as he drank his tea, 
and heaved a deep sigh at every sip. His face ex- 
pressed complete indifference, but each sigh seemed 
to be saying: 

“ Just wait a minute; I will give it you.” 

‘“‘ Give me a farthing’s worth of sunflower seeds,” 
Yegorushka said, addressing him. 

The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows, came out 
from behind the counter, and poured a farthing’s 
worth of sunflower seeds into Yegorushka’s pocket, 
using an empty pomatum pot as a measure. Yego- 
rushka did not want to go away. He spent a long 
time in examining the box of cakes, thought a little 
and asked, pointing to some little cakes covered with 
the mildew of age: 

‘“ How much are these cakes?” 

‘Two for a farthing.” 


The Steppe 237 


Yegorushka took out of his pocket the cake given 
him the day before by the Jewess, and asked him: 

“And how much do you charge for cakes like 
this?” 

The shopman took the cake in his hands, looked 
at it from all sides, and raised one eyebrow. 

“ Like that?” he asked. 

Then he raised the other eyebrow, thought a min- 
ute, and answered: 

‘* Two for three farthings. . . . 

A silence followed. 

“Whose boy are you?” the shopman asked, pour- 
ing himself out some tea from a red copper teapot. 

“The nephew of Ivan Ivanitch.” 

“There are all sorts of Ivan Ivanitchs,” the shop- 
keeper sighed. He looked over Yegorushka’s head 
towards the door, paused a minute and asked: 
“Would you like some tea?” 

‘Please... .” Yegorushka assented not very 
readily, though he felt an intense longing for his 
usual morning tea. 

The shopkeeper poured him out a glass and gave 
him with it a bit of sugar that looked as though it 
had been nibbled. Yegorushka sat down on the 
folding chair and began drinking it. He wanted to 
ask the price of a pound of sugar almonds, and had 
just broached the subject when a customer walked 
in, and the shopkeeper, leaving his glass of tea, at- 
tended to his business. He led the customer into 
the other half, where there was a smell of tar, and 
was there a long time discussing something with him. 
The customer, a man apparently very obstinate and 
pig-headed, was continually shaking his head to sig- 


” 


238 The Tales of Chekhov 


nify his disapproval, and retreating towards the 
door. The shopkeeper tried to persuade him of 
something and began pouring some oats into a big 
sack for him. 

“Do you call those oats?” the customer said 
gloomily. ‘Those are not oats, but chaff. It’s a 
mockery to give that to the hens; enough to make the 
hens laugh. . . . No, I will go to Bondarenko.” 

When Yegorushka went back to the river a small 
camp fire was smoking on the bank. The waggon- 
ers were cooking their dinner. Styopka was stand- 
ing in the smoke, stirring the cauldron with a big 
notched spoon. A little on one side Kiruha and 
Vassya, with eyes reddened from the smoke, were 
sitting cleaning the fish. Before them lay the net 
covered with slime and water weeds, and on it lay 
gleaming fish and crawling crayfish. 

Emelyan, who had not long been back from the 
church, was sitting beside Panteley, waving his arm 
and humming just audibly in a husky voice: ‘‘ To 
Thee we sing. . . .’ Dymov was moving about by 
the horses. 

When they had finished cleaning them, Kiruha and 
Vassya put the fish and the living crayfish together in 
the pail, rinsed them, and from the pail poured them 
all into the boiling water. 

“Shall I put in some fat?” asked Styopka, skim- 
ming off the froth. 

‘“No need. The fish will make its own gravy,” 
answered Kiruha. 

Before taking the cauldron off the fire Styopka 
scattered into the water three big handfuls of millet 
and a spoonful of salt; finally he tried it, smacked 


The Steppe 239 


his lips, licked the spoon, and gave a self-satisfied 
grunt, which meant that the grain was done. 

All except Panteley sat down near the cauldron 
and set to work with their spoons. 

“ You there! Give the little lad a spoon!” 
Panteley observed sternly. ‘I dare say he is hun- 
gry too!” 

‘‘ Ours is peasant fare,” sighed Kiruha. 

‘“‘ Peasant fare is welcome, too, when one is hun- 
gry.” 

They gave Yegorushka a spoon. He began eat- 
ing, not sitting, but standing close to the cauldron 
and looking down into it as in a hole. The grain 
smelt of fish and fish-scales were mixed up with the 
millet. The crayfish could not be hooked out with a 
spoon, and the men simply picked them out of the 
cauldron with their hands; Vassya did so particu- 
larly freely, and wetted his sleeves as well as his 
hands in the mess. But yet the stew seemed to 
Yegorushka very nice, and reminded him of the cray- 
fish soup which his mother used to make at home on 
fast-days. Panteley was sitting apart munching 
bread. 

“Grandfather, why aren’t you eating?’’ Emel- 
yan asked him. 

‘““T don’t eat crayfish. . . 4 Nasty things,” the old 
man said, and turned away with disgust. 

While they were eating they all talked. From 
this conversation Yegorushka gathered that all his 
new acquaintances, in spite of the differences of their 
ages and their characters, had one point in common 
which made them all alike: they were all people with 
a splendid past and a very poor present. Of their 


240 The Tales of Chekhov 


past they all— every one of them — spoke with 
enthusiasm; their attitude to the present was almost 
one of contempt. The Russian loves recalling life, 
but he does not love living. Yegorushka did not yet 
know that, and before the stew had been all eaten he 
firmly believed that the men sitting round the caul- 
dron were the injured victims of fate. Panteley told 
them that in the past, before there were railways, he 
used to go with trains of waggons to Moscow and to 
Nizhni, and used to earn so much that he did not 
know what to do with his money; and what mer- 
chants there used to be in those days! what fish! how 
cheap everything was! Now the roads were 
shorter, the merchants were stingier, the peasants 
were poorer, the bread was dearer, everything had 
shrunk and was on a smaller scale. Emelyan told 
them that in old days he had been in the choir in the 
Lugansky works, and that he had a remarkable voice 
and read music splendidly, while now he had become 
a peasant and lived on the charity of his brother, 
who sent him out with his horses and took half his 
earnings. Vassya had once worked in a match fac- 
tory; Kiruha had been a coachman in a good family, 
and had been reckoned the smartest driver of a three- 
in-hand in the whole district. Dymov, the son of a 
well-to-do peasant, lived at ease, enjoyed himself 
and had known no trouble till he was twenty, when 
his stern harsh father, anxious to train him to work, 
and afraid he would be spoiled at home, had sent 
him to a carrier’s to work as a hired labourer. Sty- 
opka was the only one who said nothing, but from 
his beardless face it was evident that his life had been 
a much better one in the past. 


The Steppe 241 


Thinking of his father, Dymov frowned and left 
off eating. Sullenly from under his brows he looked 
round at his companions and his eye rested upon 
Yegorushka. 

‘You heathen, take off your cap,” he said rudely. 
“You can’t eat with your cap on, and you a gentle- 
man too!” 

Yegorushka took off his hat and did not say a 
word, but the stew lost all savour for him, and he 
did not hear Panteley and Vassya intervening on his 
behalf. A feeling of anger with the insulting fellow 
was rankling oppressively in his breast, and he made 
up his mind that he would do him some injury, what- 
ever it cost him. 

After dinner everyone sauntered to the waggons 
and lay down in the shade. 

‘““Are we going to start soon, grandfather?” 
Yegorushka asked Panteley. 

‘‘In God’s good time we shall set off.... 
There’s no starting yet; it is too hot. . . . O Lord, 
Thy will be done. Holy Mother. . . . Lie down, 
little lad.” 

Soon there was a sound of snoring from under 
the waggons. Yegorushka meant to go back to the 
village, but on consideration, yawned and lay down 
by the old man. 


VI 


The waggons remained by the river the whole day, 
and set off again when the sun was setting. 

Yegorushka was lying on the bales again; the 
waggon creaked softly and swayed from side to side. 


a 


242 The Tales of Chekhov 


Panteley walked below, stamping his feet, slapping 
himself on his thighs and muttering. The air was 
full of the churring music of the steppes, as it had 
been the day before. 

Yegorushka lay on his back, and, putting his hands 
under his head, gazed upwards at the sky. He 
watched the glow of sunset kindle, then fade away; 
guardian angels covering the horizon with their gold 
wings disposed themselves to slumber. The day 
had passed peacefully; the quiet peaceful night had 
come, and they could stay tranquilly at home in 
heaven. . . . Yegorushka saw the sky by degrees 
grow dark and the mist fall over the earth — saw 
the stars light up, one after the other. . . 

When you gaze a long while fixedly af the deep 
sky thoughts and feelings for some reason merge in 
a sense of loneliness. One begins to feel hopelessly 
solitary, and everything one used to look upon as 
near and akin becomes infinitely remote and value- 
less; the stars that have looked down from the sky 
thousands of years already, the mists and the incom- 
prehensible sky itself, indifferent to the brief life of 
man, oppress the soul with their silence when one is 
left face to face with them and tries to grasp their 
significance. One is reminded of the solitude await- 
ing each one of us in the grave, and the reality of life 
seems awful . . . full of despair. 

Yegorushka thought of his grandmother, who was 
sleeping now under the cherry-trees in the cemetery. 
He remembered how she lay in her coffin with pen- 
nies on her eyes, how afterwards she was shut in and 
let down into the grave; he even recalled the hollow 
sound of the clods of earth on the coffin lid... . 


The Steppe 243 


He pictured his granny in the dark and narrow coffin, 
helpless and deserted by everyone. His imagination 
pictured his granny suddenly awakening, not under- 
standing where she was, knocking upon the lid and 
calling for help, and in the end swooning with horror 
and dying again. He imagined his mother dead, 
Father Christopher, Countess Dranitsky, Solomon. 
But however much he tried to imagine himself in the 
dark tomb, far from home, outcast, helpless and 
dead, he could not succeed; for himself personally 
he could not admit the possibility of death, and 
felt that he would never die. . . . 

Panteley, for whom death could not be far away, 
walked below and went on reckoning up his thoughts. 

“All right. . . . Nice gentlefolk, . . .”’ he mut- 
tered. ‘ Took his little lad to school — but how he 
is doing now I haven’t heard say —in Slavyano- 
serbsk. I say there is no establishment for teaching 
them to be very clever. . . . No, that’s true—a 
nice little lad, no harm in him. . . . He'll grow up 
and be a help to his father. . . . You, Yegory, are 
little now, but you’ll grow big and will keep your 
father and mother. . . . So it is ordained of God, 
‘Honour your father and your mother.’ . . . I had 
children myself, but they were burnt. . . . My wife 
was burnt and my children, . . . that’s true... . 
The hut caught fire on the night of Epiphany. . . . 
I was not at home, I was driving in Oryol. In 
Oryol. . . . Marya dashed out into the street, but 
remembering that the children were asleep in the 
hut, ran back and was burnt with her children. .. . 
Next day they found nothing but bones.”’ 

About midnight Yegorushka and the waggoners 


244 The Tales of Chekhov 


were again sitting round‘a small camp fire. While 
the dry twigs and stems were burning up, Kiruha and 
Vassya went off somewhere to get water from a 
creek; they vanished into the darkness, but could be 
heard all the time talking and clinking their pails; 
so the creek was not far away. The light from the 
fire lay a great flickering patch on the earth; though 
the moon was bright, yet everything seemed impen- 
etrably black beyond that red patch. The light was 
in the waggoners’ eyes, and they saw only part of 
the great road; almost unseen in the darkness the 
waggons with the bales and the horses looked like 
a mountain of undefined shape. Twenty paces from 
the camp fire at the edge of the road stood a wooden 
cross that had fallen aslant. Before the camp fire 
had been lighted, when he could still see things at a 
distance, Yegorushka had noticed that there was a 
similar old slanting cross on the other side of the 
great road. 

Coming back with the water, Kiruha and Vassya 
filled the cauldron and fixed it over the fire. Sty- 
opka, with the notched spoon in his hand, took his 
place in the smoke by the cauldron, gazing dreamily 
into the water for the scum to rise. Panteley and 
Emelyan were sitting side by side in silence, brood- 
ing over something. Dymov was lying on his stom- 
ach, with his head propped on his fists, looking into 
the fire. . . . Styopka’s shadow was dancing over 
him, so that his handsome face was at one minute 
covered with darkness, at the next lighted up... . 
Kiruha and Vassya were wandering about at a little 
distance gathering dry grass and bark for the fire. 
Yegorushka, with his hands in his pockets, was 


The Steppe 245 


standing by Panteley, watching how the fire de- 
voured the grass. 

All were resting, musing on something, and they 
glanced cursorily at the cross over which patches of 
red light were dancing. There is something melan- 
choly, pensive, and extremely poetical about a soli- 
tary tomb; one feels its silence, and the silence gives 
one the sense of the presence of the soul of the un- 
known man who lies under the cross. Is that soul 
at peace on the steppe? Does it grieve in the moon- 
light? Near the tomb the steppe seems melancholy, 
dreary and mournful; the grass seems more sorrow- 
ful, and one fancies the grasshoppers chirrup less 
freely, and there is no passer-by who would not re- 
member that lonely soul and keep looking back at the 
tomb, till it was left far behind and hidden in the 
MAISES:) 2. 

“Grandfather, what is that cross for?’ asked 
Yegorushka. 

Panteley looked at the cross and then at Dymov 
and asked: 

“Nikola, isn’t this the place where the mowers 
killed the merchants?” 

Dymoyvy not very readily raised himself on his el- 
bow, looked at the road and said: 

menlces, 1t 1S. . Mid 

A silence followed. Kiruha broke up some dry 
stalks, crushed them up together and thrust them 
under the cauldron. The fire flared up brightly; 
Styopka was enveloped in black smoke, and the 
shadow cast by the cross danced along the road in 
the dusk beside the waggons. 

“Yes, they were killed,” Dymov said reluctantly. 


246 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘Two merchants, father and son, were travelling, 
selling holy images. They put up in the inn not far 
from here that is now kept by Ignat Fomin. The 
old man had a drop too much, and began boasting 
that he had a lot of money with him. We all know 
merchants are a boastful set, God preserve us. .. . 
They can’t resist showing off before the likes of us. 
And at the time some mowers were staying the night 
at the inn. So they overheard what the merchants 
said and took note of it.” 

‘“'QO'Lord!: 4 +» Holy: Mother!” ssighed*) Pane 
teley. 

‘“‘ Next day, as soon as it was light,’’ Dymov went 
on, “‘ the merchants were preparing to set off and the 
mowers tried to join them. ‘Let us go together, 
your worships. It will be more cheerful and there 
will be less danger, for this is an out-of-the-way 
place)’. . 2) @he2 merchants: had :-to)strayelparee 
walking pace to avoid breaking the images, and that 
just suited the mowers. . . .” 

Dymovy rose into a kneeling position and stretched. 

“Yes,” he went on, yawning. ‘‘ Everything went 
all right till they reached this spot, and then the 
mowers let fly at them with their scythes. The son, 
he was a fine young fellow, snatched the scythe from 
one of them, and he used it, too. . . . Well, of 
course, they got the best of it because there were 
eight of them. ‘They hacked at the merchants so 
that there was not a sound place left on their bodies; 
when they had finished they dragged both of them 
off the road, the father to one side and the son to 
the other. Opposite that cross there is another cross 


The Steppe 247 


on this side. . . . Whether it is still standing, I 
don’t know. . . . I can’t see from here. . . .” 

PD ltiis,’) said Kiruha. 

‘‘ They say they did not find much money after- 
wards.” 

“No,” Panteley confirmed; ‘“‘ they only found a 
hundred roubles.” 

‘“ And three of them died afterwards, for the 
merchant had cut them badly with the scythe, too. 
They died from loss of blood. One had his hand 
cut off, so that they say he ran three miles without 
his hand, and they found him on a mound close to 
Kurikovo. He was squatting on his heels, with his 
head on his knees, as though he were lost in thought, 
but when they looked at him there was no life in him 
and he was dead... .” 

‘They found him by the track of blood,” said 
Panteley. 

Everyone looked at the cross, and again there was 
a hush. From somewhere, most likely from the 
creek, floated the mournful cry of the bird: “‘ Sleep! 
sleep! sleep!” 

“There are a great many wicked people in the 
world,” said Emelyan. 

“A great many,” assented Panteley, and he 
moved up closer to the fire as though he were fright- 


ened. “ A great many,” he went on in a low voice. 
‘“ Tve seen lots and lots of them. . . . Wicked peo- 
ple! . .. I have seen a great many holy and just, 


too. . . . Queen of Heaven, save us and have mercy 
onus. I remember once thirty years ago, or maybe 
more, I was driving a merchant from Morshansk. 


248 The Tales of Chekhov 


The merchant was a jolly handsome fellow, with 
money, too... the merchant was... a_ nice 
man, no harm in him. . . . So we put up for the 
night ataninn. And in Russia the inns are not what 
they are inthese parts. There the yards are roofed 
in and look like the ground floor, or let us say like 
barns in good farms. Only a barn would be a bit 
higher. So we put up there and were all right. 
My merchant was in a room, while I was with the 
horses, and everything was as it should be. So, lads, 
I said my prayers before going to sleep and began 
walking about the yard. And it was a dark night, I 
couldn’t see anything; it was no good trying. So I 
walked about a bit up to the waggons, or nearly, 
when I saw a light gleaming. What could it mean? 
I thought the people of the inn had gone to bed long 
ago, and besides the merchant and me there were no 
other guests in the inn. . . . Where could the light 
have come from? I felt suspicious. . . . I went 
closer . . . towards the light. . . . The Lord have 
mercy upon me! and save me, Queen of Heaven! I 
looked and there was a little window with a grat- 


ing, . . . close to the ground, in the house. . . . I 
lay down on the ground and looked in; as soon as I 
looked in a cold chill ran all down me... .” 


Kiruha, trying not to make a noise, thrust a hand- 
ful of twigs into the fire. After waiting for it to 
leave off crackling and hissing, the old man went on: 

‘I looked in and there was a big cellar, black 
and dark. ... There was a lighted lantern on 
a tub. In the middle of the cellar were about a 
dozen men in red shirts with their sleeves turned up, 
sharpening long knives. ... Ugh! So we had 


The Steppe 249 


fallen into a nest of robbers. . . . What’s to be 
done? I ranto the merchant, waked him up quietly, 
and said: ‘ Don’t be frightened, merchant,’ said I, 
‘but we are in a bad way. We have fallen into a 
nest of robbers,’ I said. He turned pale and asked: 
‘What are we to do now, Panteley? I have a lot of 
money that belongs to orphans. As for my life,’ 
he said, ‘ that’s in God’s hands. I am not afraid to 
die, but it’s dreadful to lose the orphans’ money,’ 
said he. . . . What- were we to do? The gates 
were locked; there was no getting out. If there had 
been a fence one could have climbed over it, but 
with the yard shut up! . . . ‘ Come, don’t be fright- 
ened, merchant,’ said I; ‘ but pray to God. Maybe 
the Lord will not let the orphans suffer. Stay still,’ 
said I, ‘and make no sign, and meanwhile, maybe, 
ieshall think of something. ... .’» Right!>a cv 1 
prayed to God and the Lord put the thought into my 
mind. . . . I clambered up on my chaise and softly, 

. softly so that no one should hear, began pull- 
ing out the straw in the thatch, made a hole and crept 
out, crept out. . . . Then I jumped off the roof and 
ran along the road as fast as could. I ran and ran 
till I was nearly dead. . . . I ran maybe four miles 
without taking breath, if not more. Thank God I 
saw a village. I ran up to a hut and began tapping 
at a window. ‘Good Christian people,’ I said, and 
told them all about it, ‘ do not let a Christian soul 
Begien.) 6). I, waked, jthem, :allupy.. «The 
peasants gathered together and went with me, . . . 
one with a cord, one with an oakstick, others with 
pitchforks. . . . We broke in the gates of the inn- 
yard and went straight to the cellar. . . . And the 


250 The Tales of Chekhov 


robbers had just finished sharpening their knives and 
were going to kill the merchant. The peasants took 
them, every one of them, bound them and carried 
them to the police. The merchant gave them three 
hundred roubles in his joy, and gave me five gold 
pieces and put my name down. They said that they 
found human bones in the cellar afterwards, heaps 


and’ ‘heaps’ ‘of them: . . Bones! . 4.) So they 
robbed people and then buried them, so that there 
should be no traces. . . . Well, afterwards they 


were punished at Morshansk.”’ 

Panteley had finished his story, and he looked 
round at his listeners. They were gazing at him in 
silence. The water was boiling by now and Styopka 
was skimming off the froth. 

“Ts the fat ready?” Kiruha asked him in a 
whisper. 

‘Wiait alittlesee ti Directly.’ 

Styopka, his eyes fixed on Panteley as though he 
were afraid that the latter might begin some story 
before he was back, ran to the waggons; soon he 
came back with a little wooden bowl and began 
pounding some lard in it. 

‘“T went another journey with a merchant, too, 
. . . Panteley went on again, speaking as before in 
a low voice and with fixed unblinking eyes. ‘‘ His 
name, as I remember now, was Pyotr Grigoritch. 


He was a nice man, . . . the merchant was. We 
stopped in the same way at aninn. . . . He indoors 
and me with the horses. . . . The people of the 


house, the innkeeper and his wife, seemed friendly 
good sort of people; the labourers, too, seemed all 
right; but yet, lads, I couldn’t sleep. I had a queer 


The Steppe 251 


feeling in my heart, . . . a queer feeling, that was 
just it. The gates were open and there were plenty 
of people about, and yet I felt afraid and not my- 
self. Everyone had been asleep long ago. It was 
the middle of the night; it would soon be time to 
get up, and I was lying alone in my chaise and could 
not close my eyes, as though I were some owl. And 
then, lads, I heard this sound, ‘ Toop! toop! toop!’ 
Someone was creeping up to the chaise. I poke my 
head out, and there was a peasant woman in noth- 
ing but her shift and with her feet bare... . 
‘What do you want, good woman?’ I asked. And 
she was all of a tremble; her face was terror-stricken. 
. . . ‘Get up, good man,’ said she; ‘ the people are 
plotting evil. . . . They mean to kill your merchant. 
With my own ears I heard the master whispering 
with his wife. . . .’ So it was not for nothing, the 
foreboding of my heart! ‘And who are you?’ I 
asked.) Ol am their.vcook;:, she, said.'.,, .. Right! 
... So I got out of the chaise and went to the 
merchant. I waked him up and said: ‘ Things 
aren’t quite right, Pyotr Grigoritch. . . . Make 
haste and rouse yourself from sleep, your worship, 
and dress now while there is still time,’ I said; ‘ and 
to save our skins, let us get away fromtrouble.’ He 
had no sooner begun dressing when the door opened 
and, mercy on us! I saw, Holy Mother! the inn- 
keeper and his wife come into the room with three 
labourers. . . . So they had persuaded the labour- 
ers to join them. ‘The merchant has a lot of 
money, and we'll go shares,’ they told them. Every 
one of the five had a long knife in their hand. . . 
each a knife. The innkeeper locked the door and 


252 The Tales of Chekhov 


said: ‘Say your prayers, travellers, ... and if 
you begin screaming,’ they said, ‘we won't let you 
say your prayers before you die... .’ As though 
we could scream! I had such a lump in my throat 
I could not cry out. . . . The merchant wept and 
said: ‘Good Christian people! you have resolved 
to kill me because my money tempts you. Well, so 
be it; I shall not be the first nor shall I be the last. 
Many of us merchants have been murdered at inns. 
But why, good Christian brothers,’ says he, * murder 
my driver? Why should he have to suffer for my 
money?’ And he said that so pitifully! And the 
innkeeper answered him: ‘If we leave him alive,’ 
said he, ‘ he will be the first to bear witness against 
us. One may just as well kill two as one. You can 
but answer once for seven misdeeds. . . . Say your 
prayers, that’s all you can do, and it is no good talk- 
ing!’ ‘Che merchant and I knelt down side by side 
and wept and said our prayers. He thought of his 
children. I was young in those days; I wanted to 
live. . . . We looked at the images and prayed, and 
so pitifully that it brings a tear even now. . . . And 
the innkeeper’s wife looks at us and says: ‘Good 
people,’ said she, ‘don’t bear a grudge against us 
in the other world and pray to God for our punish- 
ment, for it is want that drives us to it.’ We prayed 
and wept and prayed and wept, and God heard us. 
He had pity on us, I suppose. . . . At the very min- 
ute when the innkeeper had taken the merchant by 
the beard to rip open his throat with his knife sud- 
denly someone seemed to tap at the window from the 
yard! We all started, and the innkeeper’s hands © 
dropped. . . . Someone was tapping at the window 


The Steppe 258 


and shouting: ‘ Pyotr Grigoritch,’ he shouted, ‘ are 
you here? Get ready and let’s go!’ The people 
saw that someone had come for the merchant; they 
were terrified and took to their heels. . . . And we 
made haste into the yard, harnessed the horses, and 
were out of sight ina minute. . . .”’ 

‘Who was it knocked at the window?” asked 


Dymoyv. 
‘At the window? It must have been a holy saint 
or angel, for there was no one else. . . . When we 


drove out of the yard there wasn’t a soul in the 
Sireet.'. ... It was the Lord's doing:” 

Panteley told other stories, and in all of them 
“long knives” figured and all alike sounded made 
up. Had he heard these stories from someone else, 
or had he made them up himself in the remote past, 
and afterwards, as his memory grew weaker, mixed 
up his experiences with his imaginations and be- 
come unable to distinguish one from the other? 
Anything is possible, but it is strange that on this 
occasion and for the rest of the journey, whenever 
he happened to tell a story, he gave unmistakable 
preference to fiction, and never told of what he really 
had experienced. At the time Yegorushka took it 
all for the genuine thing, and believed every word; 
later on it seemed to him strange that a man who 
in his day had travelled all over Russia and seen and 
known so much, whose wife and children had been 
burnt to death, so failed to appreciate the wealth of 
his life that whenever he was sitting by the camp fire 
he was either silent or talked of what had never 
been. 

Over their porridge they were all silent, think- 


254 The Tales of Chekhov 


ing of what they had just heard. Life is terrible 
and marvellous, and so, however terrible a story you 
tell in Russia, however you embroider it with nests 
of robbers, long knives and such marvels, it always 
finds an echo of reality in the soul of the listener, 
and only a man who has been a good deal affected 
by education looks askance distrustfully, and even he 
will be silent. The cross by the roadside, the dark 
bales of wool, the wide expanse of the plain, and the 
lot of the men gathered together by the camp fire — 
all this was of itself so marvellous and terrible that 
the fantastic colours of legend and fairy-tale were 
pale and blended with life. 

All the others ate out of the cauldron, but Panteley 
sat apart and ate his porridge out of a wooden bowl. 
His spoon was not like those the others had, but was 
made of cypress wood, with a little cross on it. 
Yegorushka, looking at him, thought of the little 
ikon glass and asked Styopka softly: 

‘““Why does Grandfather sit apart?” 

‘““He is an Old Believer,” Styopka and Vassya 
answered in a whisper. And as they said it they 
looked as though they were speaking of some secret 
vice or weakness. 

All sat silent, thinking. After the terrible stories 
there was no inclination to speak of ordinary things. 
All at once in the midst of the silence Vassya drew 
himself up and, fixing his lustreless eyes on one point, 
pricked up his ears. 

“What is it?’ Dymov asked him. 

‘‘ Someone is coming,”’ answered Vassya. 

“Where do you see him?” 


‘“Yo-on-der! There’s something white. . . .” 


The Steppe 255 


There was nothing to be seen but darkness in the 
direction in which Vassya was looking; everyone lis- 
tened, but they could hear no sound of steps. 

‘Ts he coming by the highroad?”’ asked Dymov. 

‘No, over the open country. . . . He is coming 
this way.’ 

A minute passed in silence. 

‘““And maybe it’s the merchant who was buried 
here walking over the steppe,” said Dymov. 

All looked askance at the cross, exchanged glances 
and suddenly broke into a laugh. They felt 
ashamed of their terror. 

“Why should he walk?” asked Panteley. ‘“‘ It’s 
only those walk at night whom the earth will not 
take to herself. And the merchants were all right. 
... The merchants have received the crown of 
martyrs.” 

But all at once they heard the sound of steps; 
someone was coming in haste. 

‘““He’s carrying something,” said Vassya. 

They could hear the grass rustling and the dry 
twigs crackling under the feet of the approaching 
wayfarer. But from the glare of the camp fire noth- 
ing could be seen. At last the steps sounded close 
by, and someone coughed. The flickering light 
seemed to part; a veil dropped from the waggoners’ 
eyes, and they saw a man facing them. 

Whether it was due to the flickering light or be- 
cause everyone wanted to make out the man’s face 
first of all, it happened, strangely enough, that at 
the first glance at him they all saw, first of all, not 
his face nor his clothes, but his smile. It was an 
extraordinarily good-natured, broad, soft smile, like 


256 The Tales of Chekhov 


that of a baby on waking, one of those infectious 
smiles to which it is difficult not to respond by smil- 
ing too. The stranger, when they did get a good 
look at him, turned out to be a man of thirty, ugly 
and in no way remarkable. He was a tall Little 
Russian, with a long nose, long arms and long legs; 
everything about him seemed long except his neck, 
which was so short that it made him seem stooping. 
He was wearing a clean white shirt with an em- 
broidered collar, white trousers, and new high boots, 
and in comparison with the waggoners he looked 
quite a dandy. In his arms he was carrying some- 
thing big, white, and at the first glance strange-look- 
ing, and the stock of a gun also peeped out from be- 
hind his shoulder. 

Coming from the darkness into the circle of light, 
he stopped short as though petrified, and for half a 
minute looked at the waggoners as though he would 
have said: ‘ Just look what a smile I have!” 

Then he took a step towards the fire, smiled still 
more radiantly and said: 

‘“‘ Bread and salt, friends! ”’ 

‘You are very welcome!’ Panteley answered for 
them all. 

The stranger put down by the fire what he was 
carrying in his arms — it was a dead bustard — and 
greeted them once more. 

They all went up to the bustard and began exam- 
ining it. 

‘“A fine big bird; what did you kill it with?” 
asked Dymoy. 

‘““Grape-shot. You can’t get him with small shot, 


The Steppe 257 


he won’t let you get near enough. Buy it, friends! 
I will let you have it for twenty kopecks.” 

‘““ What use would it be to us? It’s good roast, 
but I bet it would be tough boiled; you could not 
met your teeth" into i€.°! . 7 

““Oh, what a pity! I would take it to the gen- 
try at the farm; they would give me half a rouble for 
it. But it’s a long way to go — twelve miles!” 

The stranger sat down, took off his gun and laid 
it beside him. 

He seemed sleepy and languid; he sat smiling, 
and, screwing up his eyes at the firelight, apparently 
thinking of something very agreeable. They gave 
him a spoon; he began eating. 

“Who are you?” Dymoy asked him. 

The stranger did not hear the question; he made 
no answer, and did not even glance at Dymov. 
Most likely this smiling man did not taste the flavour 
of the porridge either, for he seemed to eat it me- 
chanically, lifting the spoon to his lips sometimes 
very full and sometimes quite empty. He was not 
drunk, but he seemed to have something nonsensical 
in his head. 

‘“T ask you who you are?”’ repeated Dymov. 

‘‘T?”’ said the unknown, starting. ‘‘ Konstantin 
Zvonik from Rovno. It’s three miles from here.” 

And anxious to show straight off that he was not 
quite an ordinary peasant, but something better, Kon- 
stantin hastened to add: 

“We keep bees and fatten pigs.” 

“Do you live with your father or in a house of 
your own?” 


258 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘“No; now I am living in a house of my own. 
I have parted. This month, just after St. Peter’s 
Day, I got married. I am a married man now! 

. . It’s eighteen days since the wedding.” 

‘“That’s a good thing,” said Panteley. ‘“ Mar- 
riage is a good thing. . . . God’s blessing is on it.” 

‘““His young wife sits at home while he rambles 
about the steppe,’ laughed Kiruha.. * Queer 
chap!” 

As though he had been pinched on the tenderest 
spot, Konstantin started, laughed and flushed crim- 
son. 

‘“‘ But, Lord, she is not at home!’ he said quickly, 
taking the spoon out of his mouth and looking round 
at everyone with an expression of delight and won- 
der. ‘‘ She is not; she has gone to her mother’s for 
three days! Yes, indeed, she has gone away, and I 
feel as though I were not married. a 

Konstantin waved his hand and fanned his head; 
he wanted to go on thinking, but the joy which 
beamed in his face prevented him. As though he 
were not comfortable, he changed his attitude, 
laughed, and again waved his hand. He was 
ashamed to share his happy thoughts with strangers, 
but at the same time he had an irresistible longing 
to communicate his joy. 

‘“She has gone to Demidovo to see her mother,” 
he said, blushing and moving his gun. ‘‘ She'll be 
back to-morrow. . . . She said she would be back 
to dinner.” 

‘‘ And do you miss her? ”’ said Dymov. 

‘“Oh, Lord, yes; I should think so. We have 
only been married such a little while, and she has 


The Steppe 259 


gone away. . . . Eh! Oh, but she is a tricksy one, 
God strike me dead! She is such a fine, splendid 
girl, such a one for laughing and singing, full of 
life and fire! When she is there your brain is in a 
whirl, and now she is away I wander about the 
steppe like a fool, as though I had lost something. 
I have been walking since dinner.” 

Konstantin rubbed his eyes, looked at the fire and 
laughed. 

“You love her, then, . . .”’ said Panteley. 

‘She is so fine and splendid,’ Konstantin re- 
peated, not hearing him; “ such a housewife, clever 
and sensible. You wouldn’t find another like her 
among simple folk in the whole province. She has 
gone away. . . . But she is missing me, I kno-ow! 
I know the little magpie. She said she would be 
back to-morrow by dinner-time. . . . And just think 
how queer!” Konstantin almost shouted, speaking a 
note higher and shifting his position. ‘‘ Now she 
loves me and is sad without me, and yet she would 
not marry me.” 

‘“‘ But eat,”’ said Kiruha. 

‘“She would not marry me,” Konstantin went on, 
not heeding him. ‘I have been struggling with her 
for three years! I saw her at the Kalatchik fair; I 
fell madly in love with her, was ready to hang my- 
self. . . . I live at Rovno, she at Demidovo, more 
than twenty miles apart, and there was nothing I 
could do. I sent match-makers to her, and all she 
said was: ‘I won't!’ Ah, the magpie! I sent 
her one thing and another, earrings and cakes, and 
twenty pounds of honey —but still she said: ‘I 
won't!’ And there it was. If you come to think 


260 The Tales of Chekhov 


of it, I was not a match for her! She was young 
and lovely, full of fire, while I am old: I shall soon 
be thirty, and a regular beauty, too; a fine beard like 
a goat’s, a clear complexion all covered with pim- 
ples — how could I be compared with her! The 
only thing to be said is that we are well off, but then 
the Vahramenkys are well off, too. They’ve six 
oxen, and they keep a couple of labourers. I was in 
love, friends, as though I were plague-stricken. I 
couldn’t sleep or eat; my brain was full of thoughts, 
and in such a maze, Lord preserve us! I longed to 
see her, and she was in Demidovo. What do you 
think? God be my witness, I am not lying, three 
times a week I walked over there on foot just to 
have a look at her. I gave up my work! I was so 
frantic that I even wanted to get taken on as a la- 
bourer in Demidovo, so as to be near her. I was 
in misery! My mother called in a witch a dozen 
times; my father tried thrashing me. For three 
years I was in this torment, and then I made up my 
mind. ‘Damn my soul!’ I said. ‘I will go to the 
town and be acabman. . . . It seems it is fated not 
to be.’ At Easter I went to Demidovo to have a 
lastilookwatther:)tg-2 7) 

Konstantin threw back his head and went off into a 
mirthful tinkling laugh, as though he had just taken 
someone in very cleverly. 

‘ T saw her by the river with the lads,” he went on. 
“I was overcome with anger. . ..I called her 
aside and maybe for a full hour I said all manner of 
things to her. She fell in love with me! For three 
years she did not like me! she fell in love with me 
for what I saidto her. .. .” 


The Steppe 261 


‘“What did you say to her?’ asked Dymoy. 

“What did I say? I don’t remember. ... 
How could one remember? My words flowed at 
the time like water from a tap, without stopping to 
take breath. Ta-ta-ta! And now I can’t utter a 
word. .. . Well, so she married me. .. . She’s 
gone now to her mother’s, the magpie, and while 
she is away here I wander over the steppe. I can’t 
stay at home. It’s more than I can do!” 

Konstantin awkwardly released his feet, on which 
he was sitting, stretched himself on the earth, and 
propped his head in his fists, then got up and sat 
down again. Everyone by now thoroughly under- 
stood that he was in love and happy, poignantly 
happy; his smile, his eyes, and every movement, ex- 
pressed fervent happiness. He could not find a 
place for himself, and did not know what attitude 
to take to keep himself from being overwhelmed by 
the multitude of his delightful thoughts. Having 
poured out his soul before these strangers, he settled 
down quietly at last, and, looking at the fire, sank 
into thought. 

At the sight of this happy man everyone felt de- 
pressed and longed to be happy, too. Everyone 
was dreamy. Dymov got up, walked about softly 
by the fire, and from his walk, from the movement of 
his shoulder-blades, it could be seen that he was 
weighed down by depression and yearning. He 
stood still for a moment, looked at Konstantin and 
sat down. 

The camp fire had died down by now; there was 
no flicker, and the patch of red had grown small and 
dim. . . . And as the fire went out the moonlight 


262 The Tales of Chekhov 


grew clearer and clearer. Now they could see the 
full width of the road, the bales of wool, the shafts 
of the waggons, the munching horses; on the further 
side of the road there was the dim outline of the sec- 
Ong icrossaey ae 

Dymoy leaned his cheek on his hand and softly 
hummed some plaintive song. Konstantin smiled 
drowsily and chimed in with a thin voice. They 
sang for half a minute, then sank into silence. 
Emelyan started, jerked his elbows and wriggled 
his fingers. 

‘“‘ Lads,” he said in an imploring voice, “ let’s 
sing something sacred!’ ‘Tears came into his eyes. 
‘“‘ Lads,” he repeated, pressing his hands on his heart, 
‘“ let’s sing something sacred!” 

“1 don’t know anything,” said Konstantin. 

Everyone refused, then Emelyan sang alone. He 
waved both arms, nodded his head, opened his 
mouth, but nothing came from his throat but a dis- 
cordant gasp. He sang with his arms, with his 
head, with his eyes, even with the swelling on his 
face; he sang passionately with anguish, and the 
more he strained his chest to extract at least one note 
from it, the more discordant were his gasps. 

Yegorushka, like the rest, was overcome with de- 
pression. He went to his waggon, clambered up on 
the bales and lay down. He looked at the sky, and 
thought of happy Konstantin and his wife. Why 
did people get married? What were women in the 
world for? Yegorushka put the vague questions to 
himself, and thought that a man would certainly be 
happy if he had an affectionate, merry and beautiful 


The Steppe 263 


woman continually living at his side. For some rea- 
son he remembered the Countess Dranitsky, and 
thought it would probably be very pleasant to live 
with a woman like that; he would perhaps have mar- 
ried her with pleasure if that idea had not been so 
shameful. He recalled her eyebrows, the pupils of 
her eyes, her carriage, the clock with the horseman. 
. . . Lhe soft warm night moved softly down upon 
him and whispered something in his ear, and it 
seemed to him that it was that lovely woman bending 
over him, looking at him with a smile and meaning 
tokisshim. ... 

Nothing was left of the fire but two little red eyes, 
which kept on growing smaller and smaller. Kon- 
stantin and the waggoners were sitting by it, dark 
motionless figures, and it seemed as though there 
were many more of them than before. ‘The twin 
crosses were equally visible, and far, far away, some- 
where by the highroad there gleamed a red light — 
other people cooking their porridge, most likely. 

“Our Mother Russia is the he-ad of all the 
world!” Kiruha sang out suddenly in a harsh voice, 
choked and subsided. The steppe echo caught up 
his voice, carried it on, and it seemed as though 
stupidity itself were rolling on heavy wheels over 
the steppe. 

“Tt's) time! 'to™go,’-said’-Panteley:.' “ Get: *up, 
lads.” 

While they were putting the horses in, Konstantin 
walked by the waggons and talked rapturously of 
his wife. 

‘“ Good-bye, mates!’ he cried when the waggons 


264 The Tales of Chekhov 


started. ‘‘ Thank you for your hospitality. I shall 
go on again towards that light. It’s more than I 
can stand.” 

And he quickly vanished in the mist, and for a long 
time they could hear him striding in the direction of 
the light to tell those other strangers of his happi- 
ness. 

When Yegorushka woke up next day it was early 
morning; the sun had not yet risen. “The waggons 
were at a standstill. A man in a white cap and a 
suit of cheap grey material, mounted on a little 
Cossack stallion, was talking to Dymov and Kiruha 
beside the foremost waggon. A mile and a half 
ahead there were long low white barns and little 
houses with tiled roofs; there were neither yards nor 
trees to be seen beside the little houses. 

“What village is that, Grandfather?” asked 
Yegorushka. 

‘““That’s the Armenian Settlement, youngster,” 
answered Panteley. ‘‘ The Armenians live there. 
They are a good sort of people, . . . the Arme- 
nians are.”’ 

The man in grey had finished talking to Dymov 
and Kiruha; he pulled up his little stallion and 
looked across towards the settlement. 

‘““ What a business, only think!” sighed Panteley, 
looking towards the settlement, too, and shuddering 
at the morning freshness. ‘‘ He has sent a man to 
the settlement for some papers, and he doesn’t come. 
. . . He should have sent Styopka.” 

‘“‘ Who is that, Grandfather? ” asked Yegorushka. 

‘* Varlamov.”’ 

My goodness! Yegorushka jumped up quickly, 


The Steppe 265 


getting upon his knees, and looked at the white cap. 
It was hard to recognize the mysterious elusive 
Varlamov, who was sought by everyone, who was 
always ‘‘on his rounds,’ and who had far more 
money than Countess Dranitsky, in the short, grey 
little man in big boots, who was sitting on an ugly 
little nag and talking to peasants at an hour when 
all decent people were asleep. 

‘He is all right, a good man,” said Panteley, 
looking towards the settlement. ‘‘ God give him 
health—a splendid gentleman, Semyon Alexan- 


dritch. . . . It’s people like that the earth rests 
upon. That’s true. . . . The cocks are not crow- 
ing yet, and he is already up and about. .. . An- 


other man would be asleep, or gallivanting with vis- 
itors at home, but he is on the steppe all day, .. . 
onhisrounds. . . . He doesnot let things slip. . . . 
No-o! He’s a fine fellow. .. .” 

Varlamoy was talking about something, while 
he kept his eyes fixed. The little stallion shifted 
from one leg to another impatiently. 

‘““Semyon Alexandritch!” cried Panteley, taking 
off his hat. ‘‘ Allow us to send Styopka! Emelyan, 
call out that Styopka should be sent.”’ 

But now at last a man on horseback could be 
seen coming from the settlement. Bending very 
much to one side and brandishing his whip above his 
head like a gallant young Caucasian, and wanting 
to astonish everyone by his horsemanship, he flew 
towards the waggons with the swiftness of a bird. 

“That must be one of his circuit men,” said Pan- 
teley. ‘‘ He must have a hundred such horsemen 
or maybe more.” 


266 The Tales of Chekhov 


Reaching the first waggon, he pulled up his horse, 
and taking off his hat, handed Varlamoy a little 
book. Varlamov took several papers out of the 
book, read them and cried: 

‘“ And where is Ivantchuk’s letter? ”’ 

The horseman took the book back, looked at the 
papers and shrugged his shoulders. He began say- 
ing something, probably justifying himself and ask- 
ing to be allowed to ride back to the settlement again. 
The little stallion suddenly stirred as though Varla- 
mov had grown heavier. Varlamoyvy stirred too. 

‘““Go along!” he cried angrily, and he waved his 
whip at the man. 

Then he turned his horse round and, looking 
through the papers in the book, moved at a walking 
pace alongside the waggons. When he reached the 
hindmost, Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a 
better look at him. Varlamov was an elderly man. 
His face, a simple Russian sunburnt face with a small 
grey beard, was red, wet with dew and covered with 
little blue veins; it had the same expression of busi- 
nesslike coldness as Ivan Ivanitch’s face, the same 
look of fanatical zeal for business. But yet what a 
difference could be felt between him and Kuz- 
mitchov! Uncle Ivan Ivanitch always had on his 
face, together with his business-like reserve, a look 
of anxiety and apprehension that he would not find 
Varlamov, that he would be late, that he would miss 
a good price; nothing of that sort, so characteristic 
of small and dependent persons, could be seen in the 
face or figure of Varlamov. This man made the © 
price himself, was not looking for anyone, and did 
not depend on anyone; however ordinary his ex- 


The Steppe 267 


terior, yet in everything, even in the manner of hold- 
ing his whip, there was a sense of power and habitual 
authority over the steppe. 

As he rode by Yegorushka he did not glance at 
him. Only the little stallion deigned to notice Yego- 
rushka; he looked at him with his large foolish eyes, 
and even he showed no interest. Panteley bowed 
to Varlamov; the latter noticed it, and without tak- 
ing his eyes off the sheets of paper, said lisping: 

‘“ How are you, old man?”’ 

Varlamov’s conversation with the horseman and 
the way he had brandished his whip had evidently 
made an overwhelming impression on the whole 
party. Everyone looked grave. The man on 
horseback, cast down at the anger of the great man, 
remained stationary, with his hat off, and the rein 
loose by the foremost waggon; he was silent, and 
seemed unable to grasp that the day had begun so 
badly for him. 


‘“‘ He is a harsh old man, . . .”’ muttered Pante- 
ley. “It’sapityheissoharsh! But he is all right, 
a good man. . . . He doesn’t abuse men for noth- 


Maer dpe psy): tS: NOmMAtEE Ie co's). 


After examining the papers, Varlamov thrust the 
book into his pocket; the little stallion, as though he 
knew what was in his mind, without waiting for or- 
ders, started and dashed along the highroad. 


VII 


On the following night the waggoners had halted 
and were cooking their porridge. On this occasion 


268 The Tales of Chekhov 


there was a sense of overwhelming oppression over 
everyone. It was sultry; they all drank a great deal, 
but could not quench their thirst. The moon was in- 
tensely crimson and sullen, as though it were sick. 
The stars, too, were sullen, the mist was thicker, the 
distance more clouded. Nature seemed as though 
languid and weighed down by some foreboding. 

There was not the same liveliness and talk round 
the camp fire as there had been the day before. All 
were dreary and spoke listlessly and without interest. 
Panteley did nothing but sigh and complain of his 
feet, and continually alluded to impenitent death- 
beds. 

Dymoy was lying on his stomach, chewing a straw 
in silence; there was an expression of disgust on his 
face as though the straw smelt unpleasant, a spiteful 
and exhausted look. . . . Vassya complained that 
his jaw ached, and prophesied bad weather; Emelyan 
was not waving his arms, but sitting still and looking 
gloomily at the fire. Yegorushka, too, was weary. 
This slow travelling exhausted him, and the sultri- 
ness of the day had given him a headache. 

While they were cooking the porridge, Dymoy, to 
relieve his boredom, began quarrelling with his com- 
panions. 

‘“ Here he lolls, the lumpy face, and is the first to 
put his spoon in,” he said, looking spitefully at Emel- 
yan. ‘Greedy! always contrives to sit next the 
cauldron. He’s been a church-singer, so he thinks 
he is a gentleman! ‘There are a lot of singers like 
you begging along the highroad! ” 

‘““ What are you pestering me for?”’ asked Emel- 
yan, looking at him angrily. 


The Steppe 269 


‘To teach you not to be the first to dip into the 
cauldron. Don’t think too much of yourself!” 

“You are a fool, and that is all about it!” 
wheezed out Emelyan. 

Knowing by experience how such conversations 
usually ended, Panteley and Vassya intervened and 
tried to persuade Dymov not to quarrel about noth- 
ing. 

‘““ A church-singer!’’ The bully would not desist, 
but laughed contemptuously. ‘‘ Anyone can sing like 
that — sit in the church porch and sing ‘ Give me 
alms, for Christ’s sake!’ Ugh! you are a nice fel- 
low!” 

Emelyan did not speak. His silence had an ir- 
ritating effect on Dymov. He looked with still 
greater hatred at the ex-singer and said: 

‘“T don’t care to have anything to do with you, or 
I would show you what to think of yourself.” 

“But why are you pushing me, you Mazeppa?”’ 
Emelyan cried, flaring up. ‘‘ Am I interfering with 
you? ) 

‘What did you call me?” asked Dymov, draw- 
ing himself up, and his eyes were suffused with blood. 
teh ama Mazeppag).. Yes?) Wake, that,, then; 
go and look for it.”’ 

Dymov snatched the spoon out of Emelyan’s hand 
and flung it far away. Kiruha, Vassya, and Styopka 
ran to look for it, while Emelyan fixed an imploring 
and questioning look on Panteley. His face sud- 
denly became small and wrinkled; it began twitching, 
and the ex-singer began to cry like a child. 

Yegorushka, who had long hated Dymov, felt as 
though the air all at once were unbearably stifling, 


270 The Tales of Chekhov 


as though the fire were scorching his face; he longed 
to run quickly to the waggons in the darkness, but 
the bully’s angry bored eyes drew the boy to him. 
With a passionate desire to say something extremely 
offensive, he took a step towards Dymov and brought 
out, gasping for breath: 

‘You are the worst of the lot; I can’t bear you! ” 

After this he ought to have run to the waggons, 
but he could not stir from the spot and went on: 

‘In the next world you will burn in hell! Tl 
complain to Ivan Ivanitch. Don’t you dare insult 
Emelyan! ” 

‘* Say this too, please,” laughed Dymov: “‘ ‘ every 
little sucking-pig wants to lay down the law.’ Shall 
I pull your ear?” 

Yegorushka felt that he could not breathe; and 
something which had never happened to him before 
—he suddenly began shaking all over, stamping 
his feet and crying shrilly: 

‘* Beat him, beat him! ” 

Tears gushed from his eyes; he felt ashamed, and 
ran staggering back to the waggon. ‘The effect pro- 
duced by his outburst he did not see. Lying on the 
vales and twitching his arms and legs, he whispered: 

‘** Mother, mother! ”’ 

And these men and the shadows round the camp 
fire, and the dark bales and the far-away lightning, 
which was flashing every minute in the distance — 
all struck him now as terrible and unfriendly. He 
was overcome with terror and asked himself in des- 
pair why and how he had come into this unknown 
land in the company of terrible peasants? Where 
was his uncle now, where was Father Christopher, 


‘ 


The Steppe 27t 


where was Deniska? Why were they so long in 
coming? Hadn’t they forgotten him? At the 
thought that he was forgotten and cast out to the 
mercy of fate, he felt such a cold chill of dread that 
he had several times an impulse to jump off the bales 
of wool, and run back full speed along the road; 
but the thought of the huge dark crosses, which would 
certainly meet him on the way, and the lightning 
flashing in the distance, stopped him. .. . / And only 
when he whispered, ‘“‘ Mother, mother! ”’ he felt as 
it were a little better. 

The waggoners must have been full of dread, too. 
After Yegorushka had run away from the camp fire 
they sat at first for a long time in silence, then they 
began speaking in hollow undertones about some- 
thing, saying that it was coming and that they must 
make haste and get away from it. . . . They quickly 
finished supper, put out the fire and began harnessing 
the horses in silence. From their fluster and the 
broken phrases they uttered it was apparent they 
foresaw some trouble. Before they set off on their 
way, Dymov went up to Panteley and asked softly: 

‘What's his name?” 

‘“ Yegory,” answered Panteley. 

Dymov put one foot on the wheel, caught hold 
of the cord which was tied round the bales and pulled 
himself up. Yegorushka saw his face and curly 
head. ‘The face was pale and looked grave and ex- 
hausted, but there was no expression of spite in it. 

“Yera!”’ he said softly, ‘‘ here, hit me! ” 

Yegorushka looked at him in surprise. At that 
instant there was a flash of lightning. 

“It’s all right, hit me,” repeated Dymov. And 


pig) The Tales of Chekhov 


without waiting for Yegorushka to hit him or to 
speak to him, he jumped down and said: ‘“ How 
dreary I am!” 

Then, swaying from one leg to the other and mov- 
ing his shoulder-blades, he sauntered lazily along- 
side the string of waggons and repeated in a voice 
half weeping, half angry: 

“How dreary 1am! O Lord! Don’t you take 
offence, Emelyan,” he said as he passed Emelyan. 
‘Ours is a wretched cruel life! ” 

There was a flash of lightning on the right, and, 
like a reflection in the looking-glass, at once a second 
flash in the distance. 

‘ Yegory, take this,’ 
something big and dark. 

‘What is it?’ asked Yegorushka. 

‘““A mat. There will be rain, so cover yourself 
Yegorushka sat up and looked about him. The 
distance had grown perceptibly blacker, and now 
oftener than every minute winked with a pale light. 
The blackness was being bent towards the right as 
though by its own weight. 

‘Will there be a storm, Grandfather?” asked 
Yegorushka. 

‘“Ah, my poor feet, how they ache!” Panteley 
said in a high-pitched voice, stamping his feet and 
not hearing the boy. 

On the left someone seemed to strike a match in 
the sky; a pale phosphorescent streak gleamed and 
went out. There was a sound as though someone 
very far away were walking over an iron roof, prob- 
ably barefoot, for the iron gave a hollow rumble. 


’ 


cried Panteley, throwing up 


u 


The Steppe 273 


‘Tt’s set in!’ cried Kiruha. 

Between the distance and the horizon on the right 
there was a flash of lightning so vivid that it lighted 
up part of the steppe and the spot where the clear 
sky met the blackness. A terrible cloud was swoop- 
ing down, without haste, a compact mass; big black 
shreds hung from its edge; similar shreds pressing 
one upon another were piling up on the right and left 
horizon. The tattered, ragged look of the storm- 
cloud gave it a drunken disorderly air. There was 
a distinct, not smothered, growl of thunder. Yego- 
rushka crossed himself and began quickly putting on 
his great-coat. 

‘Tam dreary!’ Dymov’s shout floated from the 
foremost waggon, and it could be told from his voice 
that he was beginning to be ill-humoured again. “I 
am so dreary! ”’ 

All at once there was a squall of wind, so violent 
that it almost snatched away Yegorushka’s bundle 
and mat; the mat fluttered in all directions and 
flapped on the bale and on Yegorushka’s face. ‘The 
wind dashed whistling over the steppe, whirled round 
in disorder and raised such an uproar from the grass 
that neither the thunder nor the creaking of the 
wheels could be heard; it blew from the black storm- 
cloud, carrying with it clouds of dust and the scent of 
rain and wet earth. The moonlight grew mistier, as 
it were dirtier; the stars were even more overcast; 
and clouds of dust could be seen hurrying along the 
edge of the road, followed by their shadows. By 
now, most likely, the whirlwind eddying round and 
lifting from the earth dust, dry grass and feathers, 
was mounting to the very. sky; uprooted plants must 


274 The Tales of Chekhov 


have been flying by that very black storm-cloud, and 
how frightened they must have been! But through 
the dust that clogged the eyes nothing could be seen 
but the flash of lightning. 

Yegorushka, thinking it would pour with rain in 
a minute, knelt up and covered himself with the mat. 

‘‘ Panteley-ey!’’ someone shouted in the front. 
ATi a le 1a Ger ceva ice 

‘I can’t!” Panteley answered in a loud high 
Volcerin lh UAC Var bere es ival” Aryeh ae anaes 

There was an angry clap of thunder, which rolled 
across the sky from right to left, then back again, 
and died away near the foremost waggon. 

“Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth,” whispered 
Yegorushka, crossing himself. ‘ Fill heaven and 
earth with [hy glory.” 

The blackness in the sky yawned wide and 
breathed white fire. At once there was another clap 
of thunder. It had scarcely ceased when there was a 
flash of lightning so broad that Yegorushka suddenly 
saw through a slit in the mat the whole highroad to 
the very horizon, all the waggoners and even Ki- 
ruha’s waistcoat. The black shreds had by now 
moved upwards from the left, and one of them, a 
coarse, clumsy monster like a claw with fingers, 
stretched to the moon. Yegorushka made up his 
mind to shut his eyes tight, to pay no attention to it, 
and to wait till it was all over. 

The rain was for some reason long in coming. 
Yegorushka peeped out from the mat in the hope 
that perhaps the storm-cloud was passing over. It 
was fearfully dark. Yegorushka could see neither 
Panteley, nor the bale of wool, nor himself; he 


The Steppe O75 


looked sideways towards the place where the moon 
had lately been, but there was the same black dark- 
ness there as over the waggons. And in the dark- 
ness the flashes of lightning seemed more violent and 
blinding, so that they hurt his eyes. 

‘“ Panteley! ” called Yegorushka. 

No answer followed. But now a gust of wind for 
the last time flung up the mat and hurried away. A 
quiet regular sound was heard. A big cold drop fell 
on Yegorushka’s knee, another trickled over his 
hand. He noticed that his knees were not covered, 
and tried to rearrange the mat, but at that moment 
something began pattering on the road, then on the 
shafts and the bales. It was the rain. As though 
they understood one another, the rain and the mat 
began prattling of something rapidly, gaily and most 
annoyingly like two magpies. 

Yegorushka knelt up or rather squatted on his 
boots. While the rain was pattering on the mat, he 
leaned forward to screen his knees, which were sud- 
denly wet. He succeeded in covering his knees, but 
in less than a minute was aware of a penetrating, un- 
pleasant dampness behind on his back and the calves 
of his legs. He returned to his former position, 
exposing his knees to the rain, and wondered what to 
do to rearrange the mat which he could not see in 
the darkness. But his arms were already wet, the 
water was trickling up his sleeves and down his col- 
lar, and his shoulder-blades felt chilly. And he 
made up his mind to do nothing but sit motionless and 
wait till it was all over. 

“Holy, holy, holy!’ he whispered. 

Suddenly, exactly over his head, the sky cracked 


276 The Tales of Chekhov 


with a fearful deafening din; he huddled up and 
held his breath, waiting for the fragments to fall 
upon his head and back. He inadvertently opened 
his eyes and saw a blinding intense light flare out and 
flash five times on his fingers, his wet sleeves, and 
on the trickles of water running from the mat upon 
the bales and down to the ground. ‘There was a 
fresh peal of thunder as violent and awful; the sky 
was not growling and rumbling now, but uttering 
short crashing sounds like the crackling of dry 
wood. 

“Trrah! tah! tah! tah!” the thunder rang out 
distinctly, rolled over the sky, seemed to stumble, and 
somewhere by the foremost waggons or far behind 
to fall with an abrupt angry “ Trrra!”’ 

The flashes of lightning had at first been only ter- 
rible, but with such thunder they seemed sinister and 
menacing. Their magic light pierced through closed . 
eyelids and sent a chill all over the body. What 
could he do not to see them? Yegorushka made 
up his mind to turn over on his face. Cautiously, 
as though afraid of being watched, he got on all 
fours, and his hands slipping on the wet bale, he 
turned back again. 

‘Trrah! tah! tah!’ floated over his head, rolled 
under the waggons and exploded ‘“‘ Kraa!”’ 

Again he inadvertently opened his eyes and saw 
a new danger: three huge giants with long pikes were 
following the waggon! A flash of lightning 
gleamed on the points of their pikes and lighted up 
their figures very distinctly. They were men of 
huge proportions, with covered faces, bowed heads, 
and heavy footsteps. They seemed gloomy and dis- 


The Steppe 277 


pirited and lost in thought. Perhaps they were not 
following the waggons with any harmful intent, and 
yet there was something awful in their proximity. 

Yegorushka turned quickly forward, and trem- 
bling all over cried: ‘‘ Panteley! Grandfather!” 

“Trrah! tah! tah!” the sky answered him. 

He opened his eyes to see if the waggoners were 
there. ‘There were flashes of lightning in two places, 
which lighted up the road to the far distance, the 
whole string of waggons and all the waggoners. 
Streams of water were flowing along the road and 
bubbles were dancing. Panteley was walking beside 
the waggon; his tall hat and his shoulder were cov- 
ered with a small mat; his figure expressed neither 
terror nor uneasiness, as though he were deafened 
by the thunder and blinded by the lightning. 

‘“ Grandfather, the giants!’ Yegorushka shouted 
to him in tears. 

But the old man did not hear. Further away 
walked Emelyan. He was covered from head to 
foot with a big mat and was triangular in shape. 
Vassya, without anything over him, was walking 
with the same wooden step as usual, lifting his feet 
high and not bending his knees. In the flash of 
lightning it seemed as though the waggons were not 
moving and the men were motionless, that Vassya’s 
lifted foot was rigid in the same position. . . . 

Yegorushka called the old man once more. Get- 
ting no answer, he sat motionless, and no longer 
waited for it all to end. He was convinced that 
the thunder would kill him in another minute, that 
he would accidentally open his eyes and see the ter- 
rible giants, and he left off crossing himself, calling 


278 The Tales of Chekhov 


the old man and thinking of his mother, and was 
simply numb with cold and the conviction that the 
storm would never end. 

But at last there was the sound of voices. 

‘““Yegory, are you asleep?’”’ Panteley cried be- 
low. ‘‘Get down! Is he deaf, the silly little 
Gling. canes? 

‘Something like a storm!” said an unfamiliar 
bass voice, and the stranger cleared his throat as 
though he had just tossed off a good glass of vodka. 

Yegorushka opened his eyes. Close to the wag- 
gon stood Panteley, Emelyan, looking like a triangle, 
and the giants. The latter were by now much 
shorter, and when Yegorushka looked more closely 
at them they turned out to be ordinary peasants, 
carrying on their shoulders not pikes but pitchforks. 
In the space between Panteley and the triangular 
figure, gleamed the window of a low-pitched hut. So 
the waggons were halting in the village. Yego- 
rushka flung off the mat, took his bundle and made 
haste to get off the waggon. Now when close to 
him there were people talking and a lighted window 
he no longer felt afraid, though the thunder was 
crashing as before and the whole sky was streaked 
with lightning. 

“It was a good storm, all right, . . .”’ Panteley 
was muttering. ‘‘ Thank God, . .. my feet are 
a little softened by the rain. It was all right... . 
Have you got down, Pia Well, go into the 
hut; it tspalliright.».° - 

‘ Holy, holy, holy!” aheeded Emelyan, “‘ it must 
have struck something. ... Are you of these 
parts?”’ he asked the giants. 


The Steppe 279 


“No, from Glinovo. We belong to Glinovo. 
We are working at the Platers’.” 

“Threshing? ”’ 

‘‘Allsorts. Just now we are getting in the wheat. 
The lightning, the lightning ! It is long since we 
have had such a storm. 

Yegorushka went into the hae He was met by a 
lean hunchbacked old woman witha sharp chin. She 
stood holding a tallow candle in her hands, screw- 
ing up her eyes and heaving prolonged sighs. 

“What a storm God has sent us!” she said. 
‘“* And our lads are out for the night on the steppe; 
they’ll have a bad time, poor dears! Take off your 
things, little sir, take off your things.” 

Shivering with cold and shrugging squeamishly, 
Yegorushka pulled off his drenched overcoat, then 
stretched out his arms and straddled his legs, and 
stood a long time without moving. The slightest 
movement caused an unpleasant sensation of cold and 
wetness. His sleeves and the back of his shirt were 
sopped, his trousers stuck to his legs, his head was 
dripping. 

‘“What’s the use of standing there, with your legs 
apart, little lad?” said the old woman. ‘“ Come, 
sit down.” 

Holding his legs wide apart, Yegorushka went 
up to the table and sat down on a bench near some- 
body’s head. The head moved, puffed a stream of 
air through its nose, made a chewing sound and 
subsided. A mound covered with a_ sheepskin 
stretched from the head along the bench; it was a 
peasant woman asleep. 

The old woman went out sighing, and came 


280 The Tales of Chekhov 


back with a big water melon and a little sweet 
melon. 

‘‘ Have something to eat, my dear! I have noth- 
ing else to offer you, . . .”’ she said, yawning. She 
rummaged in the table and took out a long sharp 
knife, very much like the one with which the brigands 
killed the merchants in the inn. “ Have some, my 
dear!” 

Yegorushka, shivering as though he were in a 
fever, ate a slice of sweet melon with black bread and 
then a slice of water melon, and that made him feel 
colder still. 

‘“Our lads are out on the steppe for the night, 

. .’ sighed the old woman while he was eating. 
“The terror of the Lord! I'd light the candle under 
the ikon, but I don’t know where Stepanida has put it. 
Have some more, little sir, have some more. .. .” 
The old woman gave a yawn and, putting her right 
hand behind her, scratched her left shoulder. 

‘‘ It must be two o’clock now,” she said; “‘ it will 
soon be time to get up. Our lads are out on the 
steppe for the night; they are all wet through for 
SUE Jester 04 
“Granny,” said Yegorushka. “I am sleepy.” 

“Lie down, my dear, lie down,” the old woman 
sighed, yawning. ‘‘Lord Jesus Christ! I was 
asleep, when I heard a noise as though someone were 
knocking. I woke up and looked, and it was the 
storm God had sent us. . . . I’d have lighted the 
candle, ‘but I couldn’t find it.” 

Talking to herself, she pulled some rags, probably 
her own bed, off the bench, took two sheepskins off 
a nail by the stove, and began laying them out for a 


The Steppe 281 


bed for Yegorushka. “The storm doesn’t grow 
less,” she muttered. ‘If only nothing’s struck in 
an unlucky hour. Our lads are out on the steppe 
for the night. Lie down and sleep, my dear... . 
Christ be with you, my child. . . . I won’t take away 
the melon; maybe you'll have a bit when you get up.” 

The sighs and yawns of the old woman, the even 
breathing of the sleeping woman, the half-darkness 
of the hut, and the sound of the rain outside, made 
one sleepy. Yegorushka was shy of undressing be- 
fore the old woman. He only took-off his boots, lay 
down and covered himself with the sheepskin. 

‘Ts the little lad lying down?” he heard Panteley 
whisper a little later. 

“Yes,” answered the old woman in a whisper. 
“The terror of the Lord! It thunders and thun- 
ders, and there is no end to it.” 

‘Tt will soon be over,” wheezed Panteley, sitting 
down; “it’s getting quieter. ... The lads have 
gone into the huts, and two have stayed with the 


Morses. ,Ehe lads have. . . . They can’t; . . .the 
horses would be taken away. . . . I'll sit here a bit 
and then go and take my turn. . . . We can’t leave 


>) 


them; they would be taken... . 

Panteley and the old woman sat side by side at 
Yegorushka’s feet, talking in hissing whispers and 
interspersing their speech with sighs and yawns. 
And Yegorushka could not get warm. The warm 
heavy sheepskin lay on him, but he was trembling all 
over; his arms and legs were twitching, and his whole 
inside was shivering. . . . He undressed under the 
sheepskin, but that was no good. His shivering 
grew more and more acute. 


282 The Tales of Chekhov 


Panteley went out to take his turn with the horses, 
and afterwards came back again, and still Yego- 
rushka was shivering all over and could not get to 
sleep. Something weighed upon his head and chest 
and oppressed him, and he did not know what it was, 
whether it was the old people whispering, or the 
heavy smell of the sheepskin. The melon he had 
eaten had left an unpleasant metallic taste in his 
mouth. Moreover he was being bitten by fleas. 

‘“‘ Grandfather, I am cold,’ heesaid, and did not 
know his own voice. 

‘Go to sleep, my child, go to sleep,” sighed the 
old woman. 

Tit came up to the bedside on his thin little legs 
and waved his arms, then grew up to the ceiling and 
turned into a windmill. . . . Father Christopher, 
not as he was in the chaise, but in his full vestments 
with the sprinkler in his hand, walked round the mill, 
sprinkling it with holy water, and it left off waving. 
Yegorushka, knowing this was delirium, opened his 
eyes. 

‘“‘ Grandfather,” he called, “‘ give me some wa- 
tere 

No one answered. Yegorushka felt it insuffer- 
ably stifling and uncomfortable lying down. He got 
up, dressed, and went out of the hut. Morning was 
beginning. The sky was overcast, but it was no 
longer raining. Shivering and wrapping himself in 
his wet overcoat, Yegorushka walked about the 
muddy yard and listened to the silence; he caught 
sight of a little shed with a half-open door made of 
reeds. He looked into this shed, went into it, and 
sat down in a dark corner on a heap of dry dung. 


The Steppe 283 


There was a tangle of thoughts in his heavy head; 
his mouth was dry and unpleasant from the-metallic 
taste. He looked at his hat, straightened the pea- 
cock’s feather on it, and thought how he had gone 
with his mother to buy the hat. He put his hand 
into his pocket and took out a lump of brownish 
sticky paste. How had that paste come into his 
pocket? He thought a minute, smelt it; it smelt of 
‘honey. Aha! it was the Jewish cake! How sopped 
it was, poor thing! 

Yegorushka examined his coat. It was a little 
grey overcoat with big bone buttons, cut in the shape 
of a frock-coat. At home, being a new and expen- 
sive article, it had not been hung in the hall, but with 
his mother’s dresses in her bedroom; he was only 
allowed to wear it on holidays. Looking at it, 
Yegorushka felt sorry for it. He thought that he 
and the great-coat were both abandoned to the mercy 
of destiny; he thought that he would never get back 
home, and began sobbing so violently that he almost 
fell off the heap of dung. 

A big white dog with woolly tufts like curl-papers 
about its face, sopping from the rain, came into the 
shed and stared with curiosity at Yegorushka. It 
seemed to be hesitating whether to bark or not. De- 
ciding that there was no need to bark, it went cau- 
tiously up to Yegorushka, ate the sticky plaster and 
went out again. 

“There are Varlamov’s men! ’”’ someone shouted 
in the street. 

After having his cry out, Yegorushka went out 
of the shed and, walking round a big puddle, made 
his way towards the street. The waggons were 


284 The Tales of Chekhov 


standing exactly opposite the gateway. The 
drenched waggoners, with their muddy feet, were 
sauntering beside them or sitting on the shafts, as 
listless and drowsy as flies in autumn. Yego- 
rushka looked at them and thought: ‘‘ How dreary 
and comfortless to be a peasant!’’ He went up to 
Panteley and sat down beside him on the shaft. 

‘Grandfather, I’m cold,” he said, shivering and 
thrusting his hands up his sleeves. 

‘“ Never mind, we shall soon be there,” yawned 
Panteley. ‘‘ Never mind, you will get warm.” 

It must have been early when the waggons set off, 
for it was not hot. Yegorushka lay on the bales of 
wool and shivered with cold, though the sun soon 
came out and dried his clothes, the bales, and the 
earth. As soon as he closed his eyes he saw Tit and 
the windmill again. Feeling a sickness and heavi- 
ness all over, he did his utmost to drive away these 
images, but as soon as they vanished the dare-devil 
Dymov, with red eyes and lifted fists, rushed at 
Yegorushka with a roar, or there was the sound of 
his complaint: “I am so dreary!” Varlamov 
rode by on his little Cossack stallion; happy Konstan- 
tin passed, with a smile and the bustard in his arms. 
And how tedious these people were, how sickening 
and unbearable! 

Once — it was towards evening —he raised his 
head to ask for water. The waggons were standing 
on a big bridge across a broad river. There was 
black smoke below over the river, and through it 
could be seen a steamer witha barge intow. Ahead 
of them, beyond the river, was a huge mountain 


The Steppe 285 


dotted with houses and churches; at the foot of the 
mountain an engine was being shunted along beside 
some goods trucks... . 

Yegorushka had never before seen steamers, nor 
engines, nor broad rivers. Glancing at them now, 
he was not alarmed or surprised; there was not even 
a look of anything like curiosity in his face. He 
merely felt sick, and made haste to turn over to the 
edge of the bale. He was sick. Panteley, seeing 
this, cleared his throat and shook his head. 

‘“* Our little lad’s taken ill,” he said. ‘‘ He must 
have got a chill to the stomach. ‘The little lad must 

. away from home; it’s a bad lookout!” 


VIII 


The waggons stopped at a big inn for merchants, 
not far from the quay. As Yegorushka climbed 
down from the waggon he heard a very familiar 
voice. Someone was helping him to get down, and 
saying: 

‘We arrived yesterday evening. . . . We have 
been expecting you all day. We meant to overtake 
you yesterday, but it was out of our way; we came 
by the other road. I say, how you have crumpled 
your coat! You'll catch it from your uncle! ” 

Yegorushka looked into the speaker’s mottled face 
and remembered that this was Deniska. 

“Your uncle and Father Christopher are in the 
inn now, drinking tea; come along! ”’ 

And he led Yegorushka to a big two-storied build- 
ing, dark and gloomy like the almshouse at N. 


286 The Tales of Chekhov 


After going across the entry, up a dark staircase and 
through a narrow corridor, Yegorushka and Deniska 
reached a little room in which Ivan Ivanitch and 
Father Christopher were sitting at the tea-table. 
Seeing the boy, both the old men showed surprise 
and pleasure. 

‘Aha! Yegor Ni-ko-la-aitch!’’ chanted Father 
Christopher. ‘‘ Mr. Lomonosov! ” 

‘‘ Ah, our gentleman that is to be, 
choy, “ pleased to see you!” 

Yegorushka took off his great-coat, kissed his 
uncle’s hand and Father Christopher’s, and sat down 
to the table. 

‘Well, how did you like the journey, puer bone?” 
Father Christopher pelted him with questions as he 
poured him out some tea, with his radiant smile. 
‘“* Sick of it, I've no doubt? God save us all from 
having to travel by waggon or with oxen. You go 
on and on, God forgive us; you look ahead and the 
steppe is always lying stretched out the same as it 
was — you can’t see the end of it! It’s not travel- 
ling but regular torture. Why don’t you drink your 
tea? Drink it up; and in your absence, while you 
have been trailing along with the waggons, we have 
settled all our business capitally. Thank, God we 
have sold our wool to Tcherepahin, and no one could 
wish to have done better. . . . We have made a 
good bargain.” 

At the first sight of his own people Yegorushka 
felt an overwhelming desire to complain. He did 
not listen to Father Christopher, but thought how to 
begin and what exactly to complain of. But Father 
Christopher’s voice, which seemed to him harsh and 


” said Kuzmit- 


The Steppe 287 


unpleasant, prevented him from concentrating his at- 
tention and confused his thoughts. He had not sat 
at the table five minutes before he got up, went to the 
sofa and lay down. 

“Well, well,’ said Father Christopher in surprise. 
‘‘ What about your tea?” 

Still thinking what to complain of, Yegorushka 
leaned his head against the wall and broke into sobs. 

“Well, well!’ repeated Father Christopher, get- 
ting up and going to the sofa. ‘‘ Yegory, what is the 
matter with you? Why are you crying?” 

“Tm... I’mill,” Yegorushka brought out. 

“Til?” said Father Christopher in amazement. 
‘““That’s not the right thing, my boy. . .. One 
mustn’t be ill on a journey. Aie, aie, what are you 
thinking about, boy . . . eh?” 

He put his hand to Yegorushka’s head, touched his 
cheek and said: 

‘Yes, your head’s feverish. . . . You must have 
caught cold or else have eaten something. . . . Pray 
to God.” 

‘Should we give him quinine? .. . 
Ivanitch, troubled. 

‘“No; he ought to have something hot. . . 
Yegory, have a little drop of soup? Eh?” 

“T. . . don’t want any,” said Yegorushka. 

‘““ Are you feeling chilly?” 

“IT was chilly before, but now . . . now I am hot. 
And ache all overs 2 

Ivan Ivanitch went up to the sofa, touched Yego- 
rushka on the head, cleared his throat with a per- 
plexed air, and went back to the table. 

“T tell you what, you undress and go to bed,” said 


” said Ivan 


288 The Tales of Chekhov 


Father Christopher. ‘‘ What you want is sleep 
now.” 

He helped Yegorushka to undress, gave him a 
pillow and covered him with a quilt, and over that 
Ivan Ivanitch’s great-coat. Then he walked away 
on tiptoe and sat down to the table. Yegorushka 
shut his eyes, and at once it seemed to him that he 
was not in the hotel room, but on the highroad be- 
side the camp fire. Emelyan waved his hands, and 
Dymovy with red eyes lay on his stomach and looked 
mockingly at Yegorushka. 

‘Beat him, beat him!” shouted Yegorushka. 

“He is delirious,” said Father Christopher in an 
undertone. 

‘““Tt’s a nuisance!’ sighed Ivan Ivanitch. 

‘“ He must be rubbed with oil and vinegar. Please 
God, he will be better to-morrow.” 

To be rid of bad dreams, Yegorushka opened his 
eyes and began looking towards the fire. Father 
Christopher and Ivan Ivanitch had now finished their 
tea and were talking in a whisper. ‘The first was 
smiling with delight, and evidently could not forget 
that he had made a good bargain over his wool; 
what delighted him was not so much the actual profit 
he had made as the thought that on getting home he 
would gather round him his big family, wink slyly 
and go off into a chuckle; at first he would deceive 
them all, and say that he had sold the wool at a 
price below its value, then he would give his son-in- 
law, Mihail, a fat pocket-book and say: ‘“‘ Well, 
take it! that’s the way to do business!” Kuzmit- 
choy did not seem pleased; his face expressed, as 
before, a business-like reserve and anxiety. 


The Steppe 289 


“Tf I could have known that Tcherepahin would 
@iye such a price,” he said in a low voice} I 
wouldn’t have sold Makarov those five tons at home. 
It is vexatious! But who could have told that the 
price had gone up here?” 

A man in a white shirt cleared away the samovar 
and lighted the little lamp before the ikon in the 
corner. Father Christopher whispered something 
in his ear; the man looked, made a serious face like 
a conspirator, as though to say, ‘I understand,” 
went out, and returned a little while afterwards and 
put something under the sofa. Ivan Ivanitch made 
himself a bed on the floor, yawned several times, 
said his prayers lazily, and lay down. 

“T think of going to the cathedral to-morrow,” 
said Father Christopher. ‘‘I know the sacristan 
there. I ought to go and see the bishop after mass, 
but they say he is ill.” 

He yawned and put out the lamp. Now there was 
no light in the room but the little lamp before the 
ikon. 

“They say he can’t receive visitors,” Father Chris- 
topher went on, undressing. ‘So I shall go away 
without seeing him.” 

He took off his full coat, and Yegorushka saw Rob- 
inson Crusoe reappear. Robinson stirred something 
in a saucer, went up to Yegorushka and whispered: 

‘““Lomonosov, are you asleep? Sit up; I’m go- 
ing to rub you with oil and vinegar. It’s a good 
thing, only you must say a prayer.” 

Yegorushka roused himself quickly and sat up. 
Father Christopher pulled down the boy’s shirt, and 
shrinking and breathing jerkily, as though he were 


290 The Tales of Chekhov 


being tickled himself, began rubbing Yegorushka’s 
chest. 

“Tn the name of the Father, the Son, and the 
Holy Ghost,” he whispered, ‘‘ lie with your back up- 
wards — that’s it. . . . You'll be all right to-mor- 
row, but don’t do it again. . . . You are as hot 
as fire. I suppose you were on the road in the 
storm.” 

6c Mece, 

“You might well fall ill! In the name of the 
Father, the Son} and’'the. Holy Ghost, .,.,-)jyoa 
might well fall ill!” 

After rubbing Yegorushka, Father Christopher 
put on his shirt again, covered him, made the sign 
of the cross over him, and walked away. Then 
Yegorushka saw him saying his prayers. Probably 
the old man knew a great many prayers by heart, for 
he stood a long time before the ikon murmuring. 
After saying his prayers he made the sign of the cross 
over the window, the door, Yegorushka, and Ivan 
Ivanitch, lay down on the little sofa without a pillow, 
and covered himself with his full coat. A clock in 
the corridor struck ten. Yegorushka thought how 
long a time it would be before morning; feeling mis- 
erable, he pressed his forehead against the back of 
the sofa and left off trying to get rid of the oppres- 
sive misty dreams. But morning came much sooner 
than he expected. 

It seemed to him that he had not been lying long 
with his head pressed to the back of the sofa, but 
when he opened his eyes slanting rays of sunlight 
were already shining on the floor through the two 


The Steppe 291 


windows of the little hotel room. Father Christo- 
pher and Ivan Ivanitch were not in the room. The 
room had been tidied; it was bright, snug, and smelt 
of Father Christopher, who always smelt of cypress 
and dried cornflowers (at home he used to make the 
holy-water sprinklers and decorations for the ikon- 
stands out of cornflowers, and so he was saturated 
with the smell of them). Yegorushka looked at 
the pillow, at the slanting sunbeams, at his boots, 
which had been cleaned and were standing side by 
side near the sofa, and laughed. It seemed strange 
to him that he was not on the bales of wool, that 
everything was dry around him, and that there was 
no thunder and lightning on the ceiling. 

He jumped off the sofa and began dressing. He 
felt splendid; nothing was left of his yesterday’s ill- 
ness but a slight weakness in his legs and neck. So 
the vinegar and oil had done good. He remembered 
the steamer, the railway engine, and the broad river, 
which he had dimly seen the day before, and now 
he made haste to dress, to run to the quay and have 
a look at them. When he had washed and was put- 
ting on his red shirt, the latch of the door clicked, 
and Father Christopher appeared in the doorway, 
wearing his top-hat and a brown silk cassock over his 
canvas coat and carrying his staff in his hand. Smil- 
ing and radiant (old men are always radiant when 
they come back from church), he put a roll of holy 
bread and a parcel of some sort on the table, prayed 
before the ikon, and said: 

‘““God has sent us blessings — well, how are 
you?” 


292 The Tales of Chekhov 


’ 


“Quite well now,” answered Yegorushka, kissing 
his hand. 

“Thank God. ...I1 have come from mass. 
. . . I’ve been to see a sacristan I know. He in- 
vited me to breakfast with him, but I didn’t go. I 
don’t like visiting people too early, God bless them! ” 

He took off his cassock, stroked himself on the 
chest, and without haste undid the parcel. Yego- 
rushka saw a little tin of caviare, a piece of dry stur- 
geon, and a French loaf. 

“See; I passed a fish-shop and brought this,” 
said Father Christopher. ‘ There is no need to in- 
dulge in luxuries on an ordinary weekday; but I 
thought, I’ve an invalid at home, so it is excusable. 
And the caviare is good, real sturgeon. . . .” 

The man in the white shirt brought in the samovar 
and a tray with tea-things. 

‘“Fat some,” said Father ‘Christopher, spreading 
the caviare on a slice of bread and handing it to 
Yegorushka. ‘‘ Eat now and enjoy yourself, but 
the time will soon come for you to be studying. 
Mind you study with attention and applicatica, so 
that good may come of it. What you have to learn 
by heart, learn by heart, but when you have to tell 
the inner sense in your own words, without regard 
to the outer form, then say it in your own words. 
And try to master all subjects. One man knows 
mathematics excellently, but has never heard of 
Pyotr Mogila; another knows about Pyotr Mogila, 
but cannot explain about the moon. But you study 
so as to understand everything. Study Latin, 
French, German, . . . geography, of course, his- 
tory, theology, philosophy, mathematics, . . . and 


The Steppe 293 


when you have mastered everything, not with haste 
but with prayer and with zeal, then go into the serv- 
ice. When you know Bee aime it will be easy for 
you in any line of life. . . . You study and strive for 
the divine blessing, eal God will show you what 
to be. Whether a doctor, a judge or an engi- 
meers se) 03.74 

Father Christopher spread a little caviare on a 
piece of bread, put it in his mouth and said: 

‘“The Apostle Paul says: ‘Do not apply your- 
self to strange and diverse studies.’ Of course, if 
it is black magic, unlawful arts, or calling up spirits 
from the other world, like Saul, or studying subjects 
that can be of no use to yourself or others, better 
not learnthem. You must undertake only what God 
has blessed. “Take example . . . the Holy Apos- 
tles spoke in all languages, so you study languages. 
Basil the Great studied mathematics and philosophy 
—so you study them; St. Nestor wrote history — 
so you study and write history. Take example from 
the saints.” 

Father Christopher sipped the tea from his saucer, 
wiped his moustaches, and shook his head. 

“Good!” he said. ‘‘ I was educated in the old- 
fashioned way; I have forgotten a great deal by now, 
but still I live differently from other people. In- 
deed, there is no comparison. For instance, in com- 
pany at a dinner, or at an assembly, one says some- 
thing in Latin, or makes some allusion from history 
or philosophy, and it pleases people, and it pleases 
me myself. . . . Or when the circuit court comes 
and one has to take the oath, all the other priests 
are shy, but I am quite at home with the judges, 


294 The Tales of Chekhov 


the prosecutors, and the lawyers. I talk intellectu- 
ally, drink a cup of tea with them, laugh, ask them 
what I don’t know, . . . and they like it. So that’s 
how it is, my boy. Learning is light and ignorance 
is darkness. Study! It’s hard, of course; nowa- 
days study is expensive. ... Your mother is a 
widow; she lives on her pension, but there, of 
courseysg yay 

Father Christopher glanced apprehensively to- 
wards the door, and went on in a whisper: 

““Tvan Ivanitch will assist. He won’t desert you. 
He has no children of his own, and he will help 
you. Don’t be uneasy.” 

He looked grave, and whispered still more softly: 

“Only mind, Yegory, don’t forget your mother 
and Ivan Ivanitch, God preserve you from it. The 
commandment bids you honour your mother, and 
Ivan Ivanitch is your benefactor and takes the place 
of a father to you. If you become learned, God 
forbid you should be impatient and scornful with 
people because they are not so clever as you, then 
woe, woe to you!” 

Father Christopher raised his hand and repeated 
in a thin voice: 

“Woe to you! Woe to you!” 

Father Christopher’s tongue was loosened, and he 
was, as they say, warming to his subject; he would 
not have finished till dinnertime but the door opened 
and Ivan Ivanitch walked in. He said good-morn- 
ing hurriedly, sat down to the table, and began 
rapidly swallowing his tea. 

‘Well, I have settled all our business,” he said. 
‘““We might have gone home to-day, but we have 


The Steppe 205 


still to think about Yegor. We must arrange for 
him. My sister told me that Nastasya Petrovna, 
a friend of hers, lives somewhere here, so perhaps 
she will take him in as a boarder.” 

He rummaged in his pocket-book, found a 
crumpled note and read: 

‘© Tittle Lower Street: ‘Nastasya Petrovna 
Toskunoy, living in a house of her own.’ We must 
go at once and try to find her. It’s a nuisance! ”’ 

Soon after breakfast Ivan Ivanitch and Yego- 
rushka left the inn. 

“It’s a nuisance,’ muttered his uncle. ‘‘ You are 
sticking to me like a burr. You and your mother 
want education and gentlemanly breeding and I have 
nothing but worry with you both. . . .” 

When they crossed the yard, the waggons and the 
drivers were not there. They had all gone off to 
the quay early in the morning. In a far-off dark 
corner of the yard stood the chaise. 

‘“ Good-bye, chaise! ’’ thought Yegorushka. 

At first they had to go a long way uphill by a 
broad street, then they had to cross a big market- 
place; here Ivan Ivanitch asked a policeman for 
Little Lower Street. 

“I say,” said the policeman, with a grin, “it’s 
a long way off, out that way towards the town graz- 
ing ground.” 

They met several cabs but Ivan Ivanitch only 
permitted himself such a weakness as taking a 
cab in exceptional cases and on great holidays. 
Yegorushka and he walked for a long while 
through paved streets, then along streets where 
there were only wooden planks at the sides and no 


296 The Tales of Chekhov 


pavements, and in the end got to streets where there 
were neither planks nor pavements. When their 
legs and their tongues had brought them to Little 
Lower Street they were both red in the face, and tak- 
ing off their hats, wiped away the perspiration. 

‘Tell me, please,” said Ivan Ivanitch, addressing 
an old man sitting on a little bench by a gate, ‘“‘ where 
is Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov’s house?” 

“* There is no one called Toskunov here,” said the 
old man, after pondering a moment. “ Perhaps 
it’s Timoshenko you want.” 

"LING, LT askunoyithtia27’ 

‘“Excuse me, there’s no one called Tosku- 
nove fi iar’ 

Ivan Ivanitch shrugged his shoulders and trudged 
on farther. 

“You needn’t look,” the old man called after 
them. ‘I tell you there isn’t, and there isn’t.” 

‘“‘ Listen, auntie,” said Ivan Ivanitch, addressing 
an old woman who was sitting at a corner with a 
tray of pears and sunflower seeds, ‘“‘ where is Nas- 
tasya Petrovna Toskunov’s house? ”’ 

The old woman looked at him with surprise and 
laughed. 

“Why, Nastasya Petrovna live in her own house 
now!” she cried. ‘‘ Lord! it is eight years since 
she married her daughter and gave up the house to 
her son-in-law! It’s her son-in-law lives there now.” 

And her eyes expressed: ‘‘ How is it you didn’t 
know a simple thing like that, you fools?” 

‘“‘ And where does she live now?”’ Ivan Ivanitch 
asked. 

“Oh, Lord!” cried the old woman, flinging up 


The Steppe 207 


her hands in surprise. ‘‘ She moved ever so long 
ago! It’s eight years since she gave up her house 
to her son-in-law! Upon my word!” 

She probably expected Ivan Ivanitch to be sur- 
prised, too, and to exclaim: ‘‘ You don’t say so,” 
but Ivan Ivanitch asked very calmly: 

‘“ Where does she live now?”’ 

The old woman tucked up her sleeves and, stretch- 
ing out her bare arm to point, shouted in a shrill 
piercing voice: 

‘Go straight on, straight on, straight on. You 
will pass a little red house, then you will see a little 
alley on your left. Turn down that little alley, and 
it will be the third gate on the right. . . .” 

Ivan Ivanitch and Yegorushka reached the little 
red house, turned to the left down the little alley, 
and made for the third gate on the right. On both 
sides of this very old grey gate there was a grey 
fence with big gaps in it. The first part of the 
fence was tilting forwards and threatened to fall, 
while on the left of the gate it sloped backwards to- 
wards the yard. ‘The gate itself stood upright and 
seemed to be still undecided which would suit it best 
—to fall forwards or backwards. Ivan Ivanitch 
opened the little gate at the side, and he and Yego- 
rushka saw a big yard overgrown with weeds and 
burdocks. A hundred paces from the gate stood 
a little house with a red roof and green shutters. A 
stout woman with her sleeves tucked up and her 
apron held out was standing in the middle of the 
yard, scattering something on the ground and shout- 
ing in a voice as shrill as that of the woman selling 
fruit: 


298 The Tales of Chekhov 


* Chick'l +. 34s Chick: :. -2*Chuickel(™ 

Behind her sat a red dog with pointed ears. 
Seeing the strangers, he ran to the little gate and 
broke into a tenor bark (all red dogs have a tenor 
bark). 

‘Whom do you want?” asked the woman, put- 
ting up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. 

‘“Good-morning!”’ Ivan Ivanitch shouted, too, 
waving off the red dog with his stick. ‘‘ Tell me, 
please, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov live 
here?” 

“Yes! But what do you want with her?” 

‘““ Perhaps you are Nastasya Petrovna?” 

* Well, yes, lam!” 

“Very pleased to see you. . . . You see, your 
old friend Olga Ivanovna Knyasev sends her love 
to you. This is her little son. And I, perhaps you 
remember, am her brother Ivan Ivanitch. . . . You 
are one of us from N. . . . You were born among 
us and married there!”. ...”’ 

A silence followed. The stout woman stared 
blankly at Ivan Ivanitch, as though not believing 
or not understanding him, then she flushed all over, 
and flung up her hands; the oats were scattered out 
of her apron and tears spurted from her eyes. 

‘Olga Ivanovna!”’ she screamed, breathless with 
excitement. ‘“‘ My own darling! Ah, holy saints, 
why am I standing here like a fool? My pretty little 
angels. 2? 

She embraced Yegorushka, wetted his face with 
her tears, and broke down completely. 

“Heavens!” she said, wringing her hands, 
‘“Olga’s little boy! How delightful! He is his 


The Steppe 299 


_ mother all over! The image of his mother! But 
why are you standing in the yard? Come indoors.” 

Crying, gasping for breath and talking as she 
went, she hurried towards the house. Her visitors 
trudged after her. 

‘““The room has not been done yet,” she said, 
ushering the visitors into a stuffy little drawing- 
room adorned with many ikons and pots of flowers. 
“Oh, Mother of God! Vassilisa, go and open 
the shutters anyway! My little angel! My little 
beauty! I did not know that Olitchka had a boy like 
that!” 

When she had calmed down and got over her 
first surprise Ivan Ivanitch asked to speak to her 
alone. Yegorushka went into another room; there 
was a sewing-machine; in the window was a cage 
with a starling in it, and there were as many ikons 
and flowers as in the drawing-room. Near the ma- 
chine stood a little girl with a sunburnt face and 
chubby cheeks like Tit’s, and a clean cotton dress. 
She stared at Yegorushka without blinking, and ap- 
parently felt very awkward. Yegorushka looked at 
her and after a pause asked: 

‘““What’s your name?” 

The little girl moved her lips, looked as if she 
were going to cry, and answered softly: 

Atha 5a" 

‘his meant Katka. 

“He will live with you,” Ivan Ivanitch was whis- 
pering in the drawing-room, “‘ if you will be so kind, 
and we will pay ten roubles a month for his keep. 
He is not a spoilt boy; he is quiet. . . .” 

“T really don’t know what to say, Ivan Ivanitch! ” 


300 The Tales of Chekhov 


Nastasya Petrovna sighed tearfully. ‘‘ Ten roubles 
a month is very good, but it is a dreadful thing to 
take another person’s child! He may fall ill or 
something. . . .” 

When Yegorushka was summoned back to the 
drawing-room Ivan Ivanitch was standing with his 
hat in his hands, saying good-bye. 

“Well, let him stay with you now, then,” he 
said. ‘‘ Good-bye! You stay, Yegor!’’ he said, 
addressing his nephew. ‘‘ Don’t be troublesome; 
mind you obey Nastasya Petrovna. . . . Good-bye; 
I am coming again to-morrow.” 

And he went away. Nastasya once more em- 
braced Yegorushka, called him a little angel, and 
with a tear-stained face began preparing for dinner. 
Three minutes later Yegorushka was sitting beside 
her, answering her endless questions and eating hot 
savoury cabbage soup. 

In the evening he sat again at the same table and, 
resting his head on his hand, listened to Nastasya 
Petrovna. Alternately laughing and crying, she 
talked of his mother’s young days, her own mar- 
riage, her children. . . . A cricket chirruped in the 
stove, and there was a faint humming from the 
burner of the lamp. Nastasya Petrovna talked in a 
low voice, and was continually dropping her thimble 
in her excitement; and Katka her granddaughter, 
crawled under the table after it and each time sat 
a long while under the table, probably examining 
Yegorushka’s feet; and Yegorushka listened, half 
dozing and looking at the old woman’s face, her 
wart with hairs on it, and the stains of tears, .. . 
and he felt sad, very sad. He was put to sleep on 


The Steppe 301 


a chest and told that if he were hungry in the night 
he must go out into the little passage and take some 
chicken, put there under a plate in the window. 

Next morning Ivan Ivanitch and Father Christo- 
pher came to say good-bye. Nastasya Petrovna was 
delighted to see them, and was about to set the samo- 
var; but Ivan Ivanitch, who was in a great hurry, 
waved his hanus and said: 

‘““We have no time for tea! We are just setting 
off.” 

Before parting they all sat down and were silent 
for a minute. Nastasya Petrovna heaved a deep 
sigh and looked towards the ikon with tear-stained 
eyes. : 

“ Well,” began Ivan Ivanitch, getting up, ‘‘ so you 
WL SEA. + yea 

All at once the look of business-like reserve van- 
ished from his face; he flushed a little and said with 
a mournful smile: 

“Mind you work hard. . . . Don’t forget your 
mother, and obey Nastasya Petrovna.... If 
you are diligent at school, Yegor, I'll stand by 
you.” 

He took his purse out of his pocket, turned his 
back to Yegorushka, fumbled for a long time among 
the smaller coins, and, finding a ten-kopeck piece, 
gave it to Yegorushka. 

Father Christopher, without haste, blessed Yego- 
rushka. 

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and th. 
Holy Ghost. . . . Study,” he said. ‘‘ Work hard, 
my lad. If I die, remember me in your prayers. 
Here is a ten-kopeck piece from me, too. . . .” 


302 The Tales of Chekhov 


Yegorushka kissed his hand, and shed tears; some- 
thing whispered in his heart that he would never see 
the old man again. 

‘““T have applied at the high school already,” 
said Ivan Ivanitch in a voice as though there were a 
corpse in the room. ‘“ You will take him for the 
entrance examination on the seventh of August. . . . 
Well, good-bye; God bless you, good-bye, Yegor!” 

“ You might at least have had a cup of tea,” 
wailed Nastasya Petrovna. 

Through the tears that filled his eyes Yegorushka 
could not see his uncle and Father Christopher go 
out. He rushed to the window, but they were not 
in the yard, and the red dog, who had just been 
barking, was running back from the gate with the 
air of having, done his duty. When Yegorushka ran 
out of the gate Ivan Ivanitch and Father Christo- 
pher, the former waving his stick with the crook, 
the latter his staff, were just turning the corner. 
Yegorushka felt that with these people all that he 
had known till then had vanished from him for ever. 
He sank heiplessly on to the little bench, and with 
bitter tears greeted the new unknown life that was 
beginning for him now. 


Wilat would that dite be dike ? 


THE END 


THE TALES OF CHEKHOV 


GEE) DEL 
AND OTHER STORIES 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 


MEW YORK + BOSTON + CHICAGO - DALLAS 
ATLANTA * SAN FRANCISCO 


MACMILLAN & CO., Limrtep 


LONDON + BOMBAY - CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 


THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Lp, 
TORONTO 


Per Ee DUE L 


AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 


ANTON CHEKHOV 


FROM THE RUSSIAN BY 


CONSTANCE GARNETT 


WILLEY BOOK COMPANY 
NEW YORK 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


CoryRiIGHT, 1916, 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 


Set up and electrotyped. Published, November, 1916. 


FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY 
NEW YORK CITY 


CONTENTS 


THE DUEL 

EXCELLENT PEOPLE . 

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PE CELOME: ... |.2 co Mpebce: au ¢*, 
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THE TALES OF CHEKHOV 


THE DUEL 
I 


It was eight o’clock in the morning — the time when 
the officers, the local officials, and the visitors usually 
took their morning dip in the sea after the hot, 
stifling night, and then went into the pavilion to drink 
tea or coffee. Ivan Andreitch Laevsky, a thin, fair 
young man of twenty-eight, wearing the cap of a 
clerk in the Ministry of Finance and with slippers 
on his feet, coming down to bathe, found a number 
of acquaintances on the beach, and among them his 
friend Samoylenko, the army doctor. 

With his big cropped head, short neck, his red 
face, his big nose, his shaggy black eyebrows and 
grey whiskers, his stout puffy figure and his hoarse 
military bass, this Samoylenko made on every new- 
comer the unpleasant impression of a gruff bully; but 
two or three days after making his acquaintance, one 
began to think his face extraordinarily good-natured, 
kind, and even handsome. In spite of his clumsiness 
and rough manner, he was a peaceable man, of in- 
finite kindliness and goodness of heart, always ready 
to be of use. He was on familiar terms with every 

3 


4 The Tales of Chekhov 


one in the town, lent every one money, doctored 
every one, made matches, patched up quarrels, ar- 
ranged picnics at which he cooked shashlik and an 
awfully good soup of grey mullets. He was always 
looking after other people’s affairs and trying to 
interest some one on their behalf, and was always 
delighted about something. ‘The general opinion 
about him was that he was without faults of char- 
acter. He had only two weaknesses: he was 
ashamed of his own good nature, and tried to dis- 
guise it by a surly expression and an assumed gruff- 
ness; and he liked his assistants and his soldiers to 
call him ‘‘ Your Excellency,” although he was only a 
civil councillor. 

‘‘ Answer one question for me, Alexandr David- 
itch,” Laevsky began, when both he and Samoylenko 
were in the water up to their shoulders. ‘“‘ Suppose 
you had loved a woman and had been living with 
her for two or three years, and then left off caring 
for her, as one does, and began to feel that you had 
nothing in common with her. How would you be- 
have in that case?” 

‘It’s very simple. ‘You go where you please, 
madam ’— and that would be the end of it.” 

“It’s easy to say that! But if she has nowhere 
to go? A woman with no friends or relations, with- 
out a farthing, who can’t work . . .” 

“Well? Five hundred roubles down or an al- 
lowance of twenty-five roubles a month — and noth- 
ing more. It’s very simple.” 


The Duel 5 


‘Even supposing you have five hundred roubles 
and can pay twenty-five roubles a month, the woman 
I am speaking of is an educated woman and proud. 
Could you really bring yourself to offer her money? 
And how would you do it?” 

Samoylenko was going to answer, but at that mo- 
ment a big wave covered them both, then broke on 
the beach and rolled back noisily over the shingle. 
The friends got out and began dressing. 

‘“Of course, it is difficult to live with a woman 
if you don’t love her,” said Samoylenko, shaking 
the sand out of his boots. ‘‘ But one must look 
at the thing humanely, Vanya. If it were my case, 
I should never show a sign that I did not love her, 
and I should go on living with her till I died.” 

He was at once ashamed of his own words; he 
pulled himself up and said: 

“But for aught I care, there might be no females 
at all. Let them all go to the devil!” 

The friends dressed and went into the pavilion. 
There Samoylenko was quite at home, and even 
had a special cup and saucer. Every morning they 
brought him on a tray a cup of coffee, a tall cut 
glass of iced water, and a tiny glass of brandy. He 
would first drink the brandy, then the hot coffee, 
then the iced water, and this must have been very 
nice, for after drinking it his eyes looked moist with 
pleasure, he would stroke his whiskers with both 
hands, and say, looking at the sea: 

‘““A wonderfully magnificent view!” 


6 The Tales of Chekhov 


After a long night spent in cheerless, unprofitable 
thoughts which prevented him from sleeping, and 
seemed to intensify the darkness and sultriness of 
the night, Laevsky felt listless and shattered. He 
felt no better for the bathe and the coffee. 

‘“Let us go on with our talk, Alexandr David- 
itch,’ he said. ‘‘I won’t make a secret of it; I'll 
speak to you openly as to a friend. Things are 
in a bad way with Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and 
me... avery bad way! Forgive me for forcing 
my private affairs upon you, but I must speak out.” 

Samoylenko, who had a misgiving of what he 
was going to speak about, dropped his eyes and 
drummed with his fingers on the table. 

‘“T’ve lived with her for two years and have 
ceased to love her,’ Laevsky went on; “ or, rather, 
I realised that I never had felt any love for her. 
. . . These two years have been a mistake.” 

It was Laevsky’s habit as he talked to gaze at- 
tentively at the pink palms of his hands, to bite his 
nails, or to pinch his cuffs. And he did so now. 

‘““T know very well you can’t help me,” he said. 
“But I tell you, because unsuccessful and super- 
fluous people like me find their salvation in talking. 
I have to generalise about everything I do. I’m 
bound to look for an explanation and justification 
of my absurd existence in somebody else’s theories, 
in literary types —in the idea that we, upper-class 
Russians, are degenerating, for instance, and so on. 
Last night, for example, I comforted myself by 


The Duel 7 


thinking all the time: ‘Ah, how true Tolstoy is, 
how mercilessly true!’ And that did me good. 
Yes, really, brother, he is a great writer, say what 
you like!” 

Samoylenko, who had never read Tolstoy and 
was intending to do so every day of his life, was 
a little embarrassed, and said: 

“Yes, all other authors write from imagination, 
but he writes straight from nature.” 

“My God!” sighed Laevsky; ‘how distorted 
we all are by civilisation! I fell in love with a 
married woman and she with me... . To begin 
with, we had kisses, and calm evenings, and vows, 
and Spencer, and ideals, and interests in common. 
. . . What a deception! We really ran away from 
her husband, but we lied to ourselves and made 
out that we ran away from the emptiness of the 
life of the educated class. We pictured our future 
like this: to begin with, in the Caucasus, while we 
were getting to know the people and the place, I 
would put on the Government uniform and enter 
the service; then at our leisure we would pick out a 
plot of ground, would toil in the sweat of our brow, 
would have a vineyard and a field, and so on. If 
you were in my place, or that zoologist of yours, 
Von Koren, you might live with Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna for thirty years, perhaps, and might leave 
your heirs a rich vineyard and three thousand acres 
of maize; but I felt like a bankrupt from the first 
day. In the town you have insufferable heat, bore- 


8 The Tales of Chekhov 


dom, and no society; if you go out into the country, 
you fancy poisonous spiders, scorpions, or snakes 
lurking under every stone and behind every bush, 
and beyond the fields —— mountains and the desert. 
Alien people, an alien country, a wretched form of 
civilisation — all that is not so easy, brother, as 
walking on the Nevsky Prospect in one’s fur coat, 
arm-in-arm with Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, dream- 
ing of the sunny South. What is needed here is 
a life and death struggle, and I’m not a fighting 
man. A wretched neurasthenic, an idle gentle- 
man. ... ..From the!) first day 1 )knew,) thatemy 
dreams of a life of labour and of a vineyard were 
worthless. As for love, I ought to tell you that 
living with a woman who has read Spencer and has 
followed you to the ends of the earth is no more 
interesting than living with any Anfissa or Akulina. 
There’s the same smell of ironing, of powder, and 
of medicines, the same curl-papers every morning, 
the same self-deception.” 

‘You can’t get on in the house without an iron,” 
said Samoylenko, blushing at Laevsky’s speaking 
to him so openly of a lady he knew. ‘‘ You are out 
of humour to-day, Vanya, I notice. Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna is a splendid woman, highly educated, 
and you are a man of the highest intellect. Of 
course, you are not married,’ Samoylenko went 
on, glancing round at the adjacent tables, “* but 
that’s not your fault; and besides . . . one ought 
to be above conventional prejudices and rise to the 


The Duel 9 


level of modern ideas. I believe in free love my- 
self, yes. . . . But to my thinking, once you have 
settled together, you ought to go on living together 
all your life.” 

“Without love?” 

“T will tell you directly,” said Samoylenko. 
‘“ Right years ago there was an old fellow, an agent, 
here—a man of very great intelligence. Well, 
he used to say that the great thing in married life 
was patience. Do you hear, Vanya? Not love, 
but patience. Love cannot last long. You have 
lived two years in love, and now evidently your mar- 
ried life has reached the period when, in order to 
preserve equilibrium, so to speak, you ought to exer- 
ese all yourspatiences, 2.” 

“You believe in your old agent; to me his words 
are meaningless. Your old man could be a hypo- 
crite; he could exercise himself in the virtue of 
patience, and, as he did so, look upon a person he 
did not love as an object indispensable for his moral 
exercises; but I have not yet fallen so low. If I 
want to exercise myself in patience, I will buy dumb- 
bells or a frisky horse, but I’ll leave human beings 
alone.” 

Samoylenko asked for some white wine with ice. 
When they had drunk a glass each, Laevsky sud- 
denly asked: 

‘Tell me, please, what is the meaning of soften- 
ing of the brain? ”’ 

“How can I explain it to you?.. . It’s a dis- 


10 The Tales of Chekhov 


ease in which the brain becomes softer . . . as it 
were, dissolves.” 

Sulls; itceurabler ee 

“Yes, if the disease is not neglectedann@am 
douches, blisters. . . . Something internal, too.” 

“Oh! . .. Well, you see’ my position; I can’t 
live with her: it is more than I can do. While 
I’m with you I can be philosophical about it and 
smile, but at home I lose heart completely; I am 
so utterly miserable, that if I were told, for in- 
stance, that I should have to live another month 
with her, I should blow out my brains. At the 
same time, parting with her is out of the question. 
She has no friends or relations; she cannot work, 
and neither she nor I have any money. . . . What 
could become of her? To whom could she go? 
There is nothing one can think of. . . . Come, tell 
me, what am I to do?”’ 

“H’m! .. .” growled Samoylenko, not knowing 
what to answer. “* Does she love you?” 

“Yes, she loves me in so far as at her age and 
with her temperament she wants a man. It would 
be as difficult for her to do without me as to 
do without her powder or her curl-papers. I am 
for her an indispensable, integral part of her bou- 
doir.”’ 

Samoylenko was embarrassed. 

‘You are out of humour to-day, Vanya,”’ he said. 
“You must have had a bad night.” 

Yes,’ I sleptibadly.;. .. \[cAltegether, of feet 


The Duel 11 


horribly out of sorts, brother. My head feels 
empty; there’s a sinking at my heart, a weakness. 
. . . I must run away.” 

“Run where?” 

‘There, to the North. To the pines and the 
mushrooms, to people and ideas. . . . I'd give half 
my life to bathe now in some little stream in the 
province of Moscow or Tula; to feel chilly, you 
know, and then to stroll for three hours even with 
the feeblest student, and to talk and talk endlessly. 
. . . And the scent of the hay! Do you remember 
it? And in the evening, when one walks in the 
garden, sounds of the piano float from the house; 
one hears the train passing. .. .” 

Laevsky laughed with pleasure; tears came into 
his eyes, and to cover them, without getting up, he 
stretched across the next table for the matches. 

“IT have not been in Russia for eighteen years,”’ 
said Samoylenko. “I’ve forgotten what it is like. 
To my mind, there is not a country more splendid 
than the Caucasus.” 

‘“ Vereshtchagin has a picture in which some men 
condemned to death are languishing at the bottom 
of a very deep well. Your magnificent Caucasus 
strikes me as just like that well. If I were offered 
the choice of a chimney-sweep in Petersburg or a 
prince in the Caucasus, I should choose the job of 
chimney-sweep.” 

Laevsky grew pensive. Looking at his stooping 
figure, at his eyes fixed dreamily on one spot, at 


12 The Tales of Chekhov 


his pale,’ perspiring face and sunken temples, at his 
bitten nails, at the slipper which had dropped off 
his heel, displaying a badly darned sock, Samoy- 
lenko was moved to pity, and probably because 
Laevsky reminded him of a helpless child, he asked: 

“Is your mother living?” 

‘Yes, but we are on bad terms. She could not 
forgive me for this affair.” 

Samoylenko was fond of his friend. He looked 
upon Laevsky as a good-natured fellow, a student, 
a man with no nonsense about him, with whom one 
could drink, and laugh, and talk without reserve. 
What he understood in him he disliked extremely. 
Laevsky drank a great deal and at unsuitable times; 
he played cards, despised his work, lived beyond 
his means, frequently made use of unseemly ex- 
pressions in conversation, walked about the streets 
in his slippers, and quarrelled with Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna before other people—and Samoy- 
lenko did not like this. But the fact that Laevsky 
had once been a student in the Faculty of Arts, sub- 
scribed to two fat reviews, often talked so cleverly 
that only a few people understood him, was living 
with a well-educated woman — all this Samoylenko 
did not understand, and he liked this and respected 
Laevsky, thinking him superior to himself. 

“There is another point,” said Laevsky, shaking 
his head. ‘‘ Only it is between ourselves, I’m con- 
cealing it from Nadyezhda Fyodorovna for the 
time... .) Don't let it out before theri/.,2° 2 1aeae 


The Duel 13 


a letter the day before yesterday, telling me that 
her husband has died from softening of the brain.” 

“The Kingdom of Heaven be his!” sighed 
Samoylenko. ‘‘ Why are you concealing it from 
her?!’ 

“To show her that letter would be equivalent 
to ‘ Come to church to be married.’ And we should 
first have to make our relations clear. When she 
understands that we can’t go on living together, I 
will show her the letter. Then there will be no 
danger in it.” 

“Do you know what, Vanya,” said Samoylenko, 
and a sad and imploring expression came into his 
face, as though he were going to ask him about 
something very touching and were afraid of being 
refused. ‘‘ Marry her, my dear boy!”’ 

33 Why? ” 

“Do your duty to that splendid woman! Her 
husband is dead, and so Providence itself shows 
you what to do!” 

“But do understand, you queer fellow, that it is 
impossible. Lo marry without love is as base and 
unworthy of a man as to perform mass without be- 
lieving in it.” 

‘But it’s your duty to.” 

“Why is it my duty?” Laevsky asked irritably. 

‘Because you took her away from her husband 
and made yourself responsible for her.” 

‘But now I tell you in plain Russian, I don’t 
love her!” 


14 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘Well, if you’ve no love, show her proper re- 
spect, consider her wishes. . . .” 

‘“*Show her respect, consider her wishes,’ ” 
Laevsky mimicked him. “As though she were 
some Mother ‘Superior! ... You! areaiipeor 
psychologist and physiologist if you think that living 
with a woman one can get off with nothing but re- 
spect and consideration. What awoman thinks 
most of is her bedroom.” 

‘““Vanya, Vanya!” said Samoylenko, overcome 
with confusion. 

‘You are an elderly child, a theorist, while I am 
an old man in spite of my years, and practical, and 
we shall never understand one another. We had 
better drop this conversation. Mustapha!” Laev- 
sky shouted to the waiter. ‘‘ What’s our bill?” 


‘“No, no . . .”’ the doctor cried in dismay, clutch- 
ing | Laevsky’s, arm:.|,“ It..is for she to, payamel 
ordered it.. Make it out to me,” he cried to 
Mustapha. 


The friends got up and walked in silence along 
the sea-front. When they reached the boulevard, 
they stopped and shook hands at parting. 

“You are awfully spoilt, my friend!” Samoy- 
lenko sighed. ‘‘ Fate has sent you a young, beau- 
tiful, cultured woman, and you refuse the gift, while 
if God were to give me a crooked old woman, how 
pleased I should be if only she were kind and af- 
fectionate! I would live with her in my vineyard 
and shies Se 


The Duel 15 


Samoylenko caught himself up and said: 

“And she might get the samovar ready for me 
there, the old hag.” 

After parting with Laevsky he walked along the 
boulevard. When, bulky and majestic, with a stern 
expression on his face, he walked along the boule- 
vard in his snow-white tunic and superbly polished 
boots, squaring his chest, decorated with the Vlad- 
imir cross on a ribbon, he was very much pleased 
with himself, and it seemed as though the whole 
world were looking at him with pleasure. Without 
turning his head, he looked to each side and thought 
that the boulevard was extremely well laid out; 
that the young cypress-trees, the eucalyptuses, and 
the ugly, anemic palm-trees were very handsome 
and would in time give abundant shade; that 
the Circassians were an honest and hospitable peo- 
ple. 

“It’s strange that Laevsky does not like the 
Caucasus,” he thought, “ very strange.” 

Five soldiers, carrying rifles, met him and saluted 
him. On the right side of the boulevard the wife 
of a local official was walking along the pavement 
with her son, a schoolboy. 

‘“Good-morning, Marya Konstantinovna,” Sa- 
moylenko shouted to her with a pleasant smile. 
‘Have you been'to bathe? Ha, ha, ha! .. . My 
respects to Nikodim Alexandritch! ”’ 

And he went on, still smiling pleasantly, but see- 
ing an assistant of the military hospital coming 


16 The Tales of Chekhov 


towards him, he suddenly frowned, stopped him, 
and asked: 

‘““Ts there any one in the hospital?” 

‘“No one, Your Excellency.” 

(a9 Eh? ”) 

‘“No one, Your Excellency.” 

“Very wellrun along: ¢'+ 

Swaying majestically, he made for the lemonade 
stall, where sat a full-bosomed old Jewess, who 
gave herself out to be a Georgian, and said to her 
as loudly as though he were giving the word of 
command to a regiment: 

“Be so good as to give me some soda-water! ” 


” 


II 


Laevsky’s not loving Nadyezhda Fyodorovna 
showed itself chiefly in the fact that everything she 
said or did seemed to him a lie, or equivalent to a 
lie, and everything he read against women and love 
seemed to him to apply perfectly to himself, to 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and her husband. When 
he returned home, she was sitting at the window, 
dressed and with her hair done, and with a pre- 
occupied face was drinking coffee and turning over 
the leaves of a fat magazine; and he thought the 
drinking of coffee was not such a remarkable event 
that she need put on a preoccupied expression over 
it, and that she had been wasting her time doing 
her hair in a fashionable style, as there was no one 


The Duel 17 


here to attract and no need to be attractive. And 
in the magazine he saw nothing but falsity. He 
thought she had dressed and done her hair so as to 
look handsomer, and was reading in order to seem 
clever. 

“Will it be all right for me to go to bathe 
to-day?” she said. 

“Why? There won’t be an earthquake whether 
you go or not, I suppose... .” 

“No, I only ask in case the doctor should be 
vexed.” 

‘Well, ask the doctor, then; I’m not a doctor.” 

On this occasion what displeased Laevsky most 
in Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was her white open neck 
and the little curls at the back of her head. And 
he remembered that when Anna Karenin got tired 
of her husband, what she disliked most of all was 
his ears, and thought: ‘‘ How true it is, how 
true!” 

Feeling weak and as though his head were per- 
fectly empty, he went into his study, lay down on 
his sofa, and covered his face with a handkerchief 
that he might not be bothered by the flies. De- 
spondent and oppressive thoughts always about the 
same thing trailed slowly across his brain like a long 
string of waggons on a gloomy autumn evening, 
and he sank into a state of drowsy oppression. It 
seemed to him that he had wronged Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna and her husband, and that it was 
through his fault that her husband had died. It 


18 The Tales of Chekhov 


seemed to him that he had sinned against his own 
life, which he had ruined, against the world of lofty 
ideas, of learning, and of work, and he conceived 
that wonderful world as real and possible, not on 
this sea-front with hungry Turks and lazy moun- 
taineers sauntering upon it, but there in the North, 
where there were operas, theatres, newspapers, and 
all kinds of intellectual activity. One could only 
there —not here—be honest, intelligent, lofty, 
and pure. He accused himself of having no ideal, 
no guiding principle in life, though he had a dim 
understanding now what it meant. Two years be- 
fore, when he fell in love with Nadyezhda 
Fyodoroyna, it seemed to him that he had only to 
go with her as his wife to the Caucasus, and he 
would be saved from vulgarity and emptiness; in 
the same way now, he was convinced that he had 
only to part from Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and to 
go to Petersburg, and he would get everything he 
wanted. 

“Run away,” he muttered to himself, sitting up 
and biting his nails. “ Run away!” 

He pictured in his imagination how he would go 
aboard the steamer and then would have some 
lunch, would drink some cold beer, would talk on 
deck with ladies, then would get into the train at 
Sevastopol and set off. Hurrah for freedom! 
One station after another would flash by, the air 
would keep growing colder and keener, then the 
birches and the fir-trees, then Kursk, Moscow. . . . 


The Duel 19 


In the restaurants cabbage soup, mutton with kasha, 
sturgeon, beer, no more Asiaticism, but Russia, real 
Russia. The passengers in the train would talk 
about trade, new singers, the Franco-Russian en- 
tente; on all sides there would be the feeling of 
keen, cultured, intellectual, eager life. . . . Hasten 
on, on! At last Nevsky Prospect, and Great 
Morskaya Street, and then Kovensky Place, where 
he used to live at one time when he was a student, 
the dear grey sky, the drizzling rain, the drenched 
cCabmen. . . . 

“Ivan Andreitch!’’ some one called from the 


next room. “ Are you at home?” 

‘“Tm here,” Laevsky responded. ‘“‘ What do 
you want?” 

Papers.’ 


Laevsky got up languidly, feeling giddy, walked 
into the other room, yawning and shuffling with his 
slippers. There, at the open window that looked 
into the street, stood one of his young fellow-clerks, 
laying out some government documents on the 
window sill. 

‘“One minute, my dear fellow,’? Laevsky said 
softly, and he went to look for the ink; returning 
to the window, he signed the papers without looking 
at them, and said: ‘It’s hot!” 

“Yes. Are you coming to-day?” 

“T don’t think so. ... I’m not quite well. 
Tell Sheshkovsky that I will come and see him after 
dinner.” 


20 ' The Tales of Chekhov 


The clerk went away. Laevsky lay down on his 
sofa again and began thinking: 

‘And so I must weigh all the circumstances and 
reflect on them. Before I go away from here I 
ought to pay up my debts. I owe about two thou- 
sand roubles. I have no money. . . . Of course, 
that’s not important; I shall pay part now, some- 
how, and I shall send the rest, later, from Peters- 
burg. The chief point is Nadyezhda Fyodorovna. 
. . . First of all we must define our relations. . . . 
Yes. 

A little later he was considering whether it would 
not be better to go to Samoylenko for advice. 

‘““T might go,” he thought, ‘‘ but what use would 
there be in it? I shall only say something inap- 
propriate about boudoirs, about women, about what 
is honest or dishonest. What’s the use of talking 
about what is honest or dishonest, if I must make 
haste to save my life, if I am suffocating in this 
cursed slavery and am killing myself? . .. One 
must realise at last that to go on leading the life 
I do is something so base and so cruel that every- 
thing else seems petty and trivial beside it. To run 
away, he muttered, sitting down, “‘ to run away.” 

The deserted seashore, the insatiable heat, and 
the monotony of the smoky lilac mountains, ever 
the same and silent, everlastingly solitary, over- 
whelmed him with depression, and, as it were, made 
him drowsy and sapped his energy. He was per- 
haps very clever, talented, remarkably honest; per- 


The Duel 21 


haps if the sea and the mountains had not closed 
him in on all sides, he might have become an excel- 
lent Zemstvo leader, a statesman, an orator, a po- 
litical writer, a saint. Who knows? If so, was it 
not stupid to argue whether it were honest or dis- 
honest when a gifted and useful man — an artist or 
musician, for instance—to escape from prison, 
breaks a wall and deceives his jailers? Anything 
is honest when a man is in such a position. 

At two o'clock Laevsky and Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna sat down to dinner. When the cook gave 
them rice and tomato soup, Laevsky said: 

‘The same thing every day. Why not have 
cabbage soup?” 

i Uhere\aresno/cabbageés:’’ 

“It’s strange. Samoylenko has cabbage soup 
and Marya Konstantinovna has cabbage soup, and 
only I am obliged to eat this mawkish mess. We 
can’t go on like this, darling.” 

As is common with the vast majority of husbands 
and wives, not a single dinner had in earlier days 
passed without scenes and fault-finding between 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and Laevsky; but ever 
since Laevsky had made up his mind that he did 
not love her, he had tried to give way to Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna in everything, spoke to her gently and 
politely, smiled, and called her “‘ darling.” 

‘““This soup tastes like liquorice,” he said, smil- 
ing; he made an effort to control himself and seem 
amiable, but could not refrain from saying: ‘‘ No- 


22 The Tales of Chekhov 


body looks after the housekeeping. . . . If you are 
too ill or busy with reading, let me look after the 
cooking.” 

In earlier days she would have said to him, “ Do 
by all means,” or, “I see you want to turn me into 
a cook’’; but now she only looked at him timidly 
and flushed crimson. 

‘Well, how do you feel to-day?” he asked 
kindly. 

“IT am all right to-day. There is nothing but 
a little weakness.” 

‘You must take care of yourself, darling. I am 
awfully anxious about you.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was ill in some way. 
Samoylenko said she had intermittent fever, and 
gave her quinine; the other doctor, Ustimovitch, 
a tall, lean, unsociable man, who used to sit at home 
in the daytime, and in the evenings walk slowly up 
and down on the sea-front coughing, with his hands 
folded behind him and a cane stretched along his 
back, was of opinion that she had a female com- 
plaint, and prescribed warm compresses. In old 
days, when Laevsky loved her, Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna’s illness had excited his pity and terror; 
now he saw falsity even in her illness. Her yellow, 
sleepy face, her lustreless eyes, her apathetic ex- 
pression, and the yawning that always followed her 
attacks of fever, and the fact that during them she 
lay under a shawl and looked more like a boy than 
a woman, and that it was close and stuffy in her 


The Duel 29 


room —all this, in his opinion, destroyed the 
illusion and was an argument against love and 
marriage. 

The next dish given him was spinach with hard- 
boiled eggs, while Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, as an 
invalid, had jelly and milk. When with a pre- 
occupied face she touched the jelly with a spoon and 
then began languidly eating it, sipping milk, and 
he heard her swallowing, he was possessed by such 
an overwhelming aversion that it made his head 
tingle. He recognised that such a feeling would 
be an insult even to a dog, but he was angry, not 
with himself but with Nadyezhka Fyodorovna, for 
arousing such a feeling, and he understood why 
lovers sometimes murder their mistresses. He 
would not murder her, of course, but if he had been 
on a jury now, he would have acquitted the mur- 
derer. 

“Merci, darling,” he said after dinner, and 
kissed Nadyezhda Fyodorovna on the forehead. 

Going back into his study, he spent five minutes 
in walking to and fro, looking at his boots; then he 
sat down on his sofa and muttered: 

“Run away, run away! We must define the 
position and run away!” 

He lay down on the sofa and recalled again that 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna’s husband had died, per- 
haps, by his fault. 

‘““To blame a man for loving a woman, or ceasing 
to love a woman, is stupid,’ he persuaded himself, 


24 The Tales of Chekhov 


lying down and raising his legs in order to put on 
his high boots. ‘‘ Love and hatred are not under 
our control. As for her husband, maybe I was in 
an indirect way one of the causes of his death; but 
again, is it my fault that I fell in love with his wife 
and she with me?” 

Then he got up, and finding his cap, set off to 
the lodgings of his colleague, Sheshkovsky, where 
the Government clerks met every day to play vint 
and drink beer. 

‘’ My indecision reminds me of Hamlet,” thought 
Laevsky on the way. ‘‘ How truly Shakespeare 
describes it! Ah, how truly!” 


Ill 


For the sake of sociability and from sympathy 
for the hard plight of newcomers without families, 
who, as there was not an hotel in the town, had 
nowhere to dine, Dr. Samoylenko kept a sort of 
table d’hote. At this time there were only two men 
who habitually dined with him: a young zoologist 
called Von Koren, who had come for the summer 
to the Black Sea to study the embryology of the 
medusa, and a deacon called Pobyedov, who had 
only just left the seminary and been sent to the town 
to take the duty of the old deacon who had gone 
away for acure. Each of them paid twelve roubles 
a month for their dinner and supper, and Samoy- 
lenko made them promise to turn up at two o'clock 
punctually. 


The Duel 25 


Von Koren was usually the first to appear. He 
sat down in the drawing-room in silence, and taking 
an album from the table, began attentively scrutinis- 
ing the faded photographs of unknown men in full 
trousers and top-hats, and ladies in crinolines and 
caps. Samoylenko only remembered a few of them 
by name, and of those whom he had forgotten he 
said with a sigh: “A very fine fellow, remarkably 
intelligent!’ When he had finished with the 
album, Von Koren took a pistol from the whatnot, 
and screwing up his left eye, took deliberate aim 
at the portrait of Prince Vorontsov, or stood still at 
the looking-glass and gazed a long time at his 
swarthy face, his big forehead, and his black hair, 
which curled like a negro’s, and his shirt of dull- 
coloured cotton with big flowers on it like a Persian 
rug, and the broad leather belt he wore instead of 
a waistcoat. The contemplation of his own image 
seemed to afford him almost more satisfaction than 
looking at photographs or playing with the pistols. 
He was very well satisfied with his face, and his 
becomingly clipped beard, and the broad shoulders, 
which were unmistakable evidence of his excellent 
health and physical strength. He was satisfied, 
too, with his stylish get-up, from the cravat, which 
matched the colour of his shirt, down to his brown 
boots. 

While he was looking at the album and standing 
before the glass, at that moment, in the kitchen and 
in the passage near, Samoylenko, without his coat 


26 The Tales of Chekhov 


and waistcoat, with his neck bare, excited and 
bathed in perspiration, was bustling about the tables, 
mixing the salad, or making some sauce, or prepar- 
ing meat, cucumbers, and onion for the cold soup, 
while he glared fiercely at the orderly who was help- 
ing him, and brandished first a knife and then a 
spoon at him. 

‘Give me the vinegar!” he said. ‘‘ That’s not 
the vinegar—it’s the salad oil!” he shouted, 
stamping. ‘‘ Where are you off to, you brute?” 

“To get the butter, Your Excellency,” answered 
the flustered orderly in a cracked voice. 

‘“‘ Make haste; it’s in the cupboard! And tell 
Daria to put some fennel in the jar with the cucum- 
bers! Fennel! Cover the cream up, gaping lag- 
gard, or the flies will get into it!” 

And the whole house seemed resounding with his 
shouts. When it was ten or fifteen minutes to two 
the deacon would come in; he was a lanky young 
man of twenty-two, with long hair, with no beard 
and a hardly perceptible moustache. Going into 
the drawing-room, he crossed himself before the 
ikon, smiled, and held out his hand to Von Ko- 
ren. 

‘““Good-morning,” the zoologist said coldly. 
“Where have you been?”’ 

“Tye been catching sea-gudgeon in the har- 
bour.”’ 

““Oh, of course. . . . Evidently, deacon, you 
will never be busy with work.” 


The Duel 27 


“Why not? Work is not like a bear; it doesn’t 
run off into the woods,” said the deacon, smiling 
and thrusting his hands into the very deep pockets 
of his white cassock. 

‘““There’s no one to whip you!” sighed the 
zoologist. 

Another fifteen or twenty minutes passed and 
they were not called to dinner, and they could still 
hear the orderly running into the kitchen and back 
again, noisily treading with his boots, and Samoy- 
lenko shouting: 

‘Put it on the table! Where are your wits? 
Wash it first.” 

The famished deacon and Von Koren began 
tapping on the floor with their heels, expressing in 
this way their impatience like the audience at a 
theatre. At last the door opened and the harassed 
orderly announced that dinner was ready! In the 
dining-room they were met by Samoylenko, crimson 
in the face, wrathful, perspiring from the heat of 
the kitchen; he looked at them furiously, and with 
an expression of horror, took the lid off the soup 
tureen and helped each of them to a plateful; and 
only when he was convinced that they were eating it 
with relish and liked it, he gave a sigh of relief and 
settled himself in his deep arm-chair. His face 
looked blissful and his eyes grew moist. . . . He 
deliberately poured himself out a glass of vodka 
and said: 

“To the health of the younger generation.” 


28 The Tales of Chekhov 


After his conversation with Laevsky, from early 
morning till dinner Samoylenko had been conscious 
of a load at his heart, although he was in the best of 
humours; he felt sorry for Laevsky and wanted 
to help him. After drinking a glass of vodka be- 
fore the soup, he heaved a sigh and said: 

‘““T saw Vanya Laevsky to-day. He is having 
a hard time of it, poor fellow! The material side 
of life is not encouraging for him, and the worst 
of it is all this psychology is too much for him. 
Vm, sorry forthe lad.” 

“Well, that is a person I am not sorry for,” said 
Von Koren. “If that charming individual were 
drowning, I would push him under with a stick and 
say, ‘Drown, brother, drown away.’ .. .” 

“That’s untrue. You wouldn’t do it.” 

“Why do you think that?” The zoologist 
shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m just as capable of 
a good action as you are.” 

‘Ts drowning a man a good action?” asked the 
deacon, and he laughed. 

nelsaevsky 2 1)) Mes: | 

“I think there is something amiss with the 
soup . . .” said Samoylenko, anxious to change the 
conversation. 

‘“Laevsky is absolutely pernicious and is as 
dangerous to society as the cholera microbe,” Von 
Koren went on. “To drown him would be a 
service.” 

‘It does not do you credit to talk like that about 


The Duel 29 


your neighbour. Tell us: what do you hate him 
fond”? 

‘“ Don’t talk nonsense, doctor. To hate and 
despise a microbe is stupid, but to look upon every- 
body one meets without distinction as one’s neigh- 
bour, whatever happens — thanks very much, that 
is equivalent to giving up criticism, renouncing a 
straightforward attitude to people, washing one’s 
hands of responsibility, in fact! I consider your 
Laevsky a blackguard; I do not conceal it, and I 
am perfectly conscientious in treating him as such. 
Well, you look upon him as your neighbour — and 
you may kiss him if you like: you look upon him 
as your neighbour, and that means that your atti- 
tude to him is the same as to me and to the deacon; 
that is no attitude at all. You are equally indiffer- 
ent to all.” 

“To call a man a blackguard!”’ muttered Samoy- 
lenko, frowning with distaste —“ that is so wrong 
that I can’t find words for it!” 

‘‘ People are judged by their actions,’ Von Koren 
continued. “ Now you decide, deacon. ... 1 am 
going to talk to you, deacon. Mr. Laevsky’s career 
lies open before you, like a long Chinese puzzle, 
and you can read it from beginning to end. What 
has he been doing these two years that he has been 
living here? We will reckon his doings on our 
fingers. First, he has taught the inhabitants of the 
town to play vint: two years ago that game was 
unknown here; now they all play it from morning 


30 The Tales of Chekhov 


till late at night, even the women and the boys. 
Secondly, he has taught the residents to drink beer, 
which was not known here either; the inhabitants 
are indebted to him for the knowledge of various 
sorts of spirits, so that now they can distinguish 
Kospelov’s vodka from Smirnov’s No. 21, blind- 
fold. Thirdly, in former days, people here made 
love to other men’s wives in secret, from the same 
motives as thieves steal in secret and not openly; 
adultery was considered something they were 
ashamed to make a public display of. Laevsky has 
come as a pioneer in that line; he lives with another 
man’s wife openly. . . . Fourthly .. .” 

Von Koren hurriedly ate up his soup and gave 
his plate to the orderly. 

‘“‘T understood Laevsky from the first month of 
our acquaintance,’ he went on, addressing the 
deacon. ‘‘ We arrived here at the same time. 
Men like him are very fond of friendship, intimacy, 
solidarity, and all the rest of it, because they always 
want company for vint, drinking, and eating; be- 
sides, they are talkative and must have listeners. 
We made friends — that is, he turned up every day, 
hindered me working, and indulged in confidences in 
regard to his mistress. From the first he struck me 
by his exceptional falsity, which simply made me 
sick. As a friend I pitched into him, asking him 
why he drank too much, why he lived beyond his 
means and got into debt, why he did nothing and 
read nothing, why he had so little culture and so 


The Duel 31 


little knowledge; and in answer to all my questions 
he used to smile bitterly, sigh, and say: ‘I ama 
failure, a superfluous man’; or: ‘ What do you ex- 
pect, my dear fellow, from us, the debris of the serf- 
owning class?’ or: ‘We are degenerate. .. .’ Or 
he would begin a long rigmarole about Onyegin, 
Petchorin, Byron’s Cain, and Bazarov, of whom he 
would say: ‘ They are our fathers in flesh and in 
spirit. So we are to understand that it was not 
his fault that Government envelopes lay unopened 
in his office for weeks together, and that he drank 
and taught others to drink, but Onyegin, Petchorin, 
and Turgenev, who had invented the failure and 
the superfluous man, were responsible for it. The 
cause of his extreme dissoluteness and unseemliness 
lies, do you see, not in himself, but somewhere out- 
side in space. And so—an ingenious idea! — it 
is not only he who is dissolute, false, and disgusting, 
but we . . . ‘we men of the eighties,’ ‘ we the spir- 
itless, nervous offspring of the serf-owning class’; 
“civilisation has crippled us’ . . . in fact, we are 
to understand that such a great man as Laevsky is 
great even in his fall: that his dissoluteness, his lack 
of culture and of moral purity, is a phenomenon of 
natural history, sanctified by inevitability; that the 
causes of it are world-wide, elemental; and that 
we ought to hang up a lamp before Laevsky, since 
he is the fated victim of the age, of influences, of 
heredity, and so on. All the officials and their 
ladies were in ecstasies when they listened to him, 


Be The Tales of Chekhov 


and I could not make out for a long time what sort 
of man I had to deal with, a cynic or a clever rogue. 
Such types as he, on the surface intellectual with a 
smattering of education and a great deal of talk 
about their own nobility, are very clever in posing 
as exceptionally complex natures.” 

“Hold your tongue!’ Samoylenko flared up. 
‘“T will not allow a splendid fellow to be spoken 
ill of in my presence! ” | 

‘Don’t interrupt, Alexandr Daviditch,” said Von 
Koren coldly; “I am just finishing. Laevsky is 
by no means a complex organism. Here is his 
moral skeleton: in the morning, slippers, a bathe, 
and coffee; then till dinner-time, slippers, a consti- 
tutional, and conversation; at two o'clock slippers, 
dinner, and wine; at five o’clock a bathe, tea and 
wine, then vint and lying; at ten o’clock supper and 
wine; and after midnight sleep and Ja femme. His 
existence is confined within this narrow programme 
like an egg within its shell. Whether he walks or 
sits, is angry, writes, rejoices, it may all be reduced 
to wine, cards, slippers, and women. Woman plays 
a fatal, overwhelming part in his life. He tells us 
himself that at thirteen he was in love; that when 
he was a student in his first year he was living with 
a lady who had a good influence over him, and to 
whom he was indebted for his musical education. 
In his second year he bought a prostitute from a 
brothel and raised her to his level —that is, took 
her as his kept mistress, and she lived with him for 


The Duel 33 


six months and then ran away back to the brothel- 
keeper, and her flight caused him much spiritual 
suffering. Alas! his sufferings were so great that 
he had to leave the university and spend two years 
at home doing nothing. But this was all for the 
best. At home he made friends with a widow who 
advised him to leave the Faculty of Jurisprudence 
and go into the Faculty of Arts. And so he did. 
When he had taken his degree, he fell passionately 
in love with his present . .. what’s her name? 

. married lady, and was obliged to flee with her 
here to the Caucasus for the sake of his ideals, he 
would have us believe, seeing that . . . to-morrow, 
if not to-day, he will be tired of her and flee back 
again to Petersburg, and that, too, will be for the 
sake of his ideals.” 

“How do you know?” growled Samoylenko, 
looking angrily at the zoologist. ‘‘ You had better 
eat your dinner.” 

The next course consisted of boiled mullet with 
Polish sauce. Samoylenko helped each of his com- 
panions to a whole mullet and poured out the sauce 
with his own hand. ‘Two minutes passed in silence. 

‘“Woman plays an essential part in the life of 
every man,” said the deacon. ‘ You can’t help 
that.” 

“Yes, but to what degree? For each of us 
woman means mother, sister, wife, friend. To 
Laevsky she is everything, and at the same time 
nothing but a mistress. She — that is, cohabitation 


24 The Tales of Chekhov 


with her — is the happiness and object of his life; 
he is gay, sad, bored, disenchanted — on account 
of woman; his life grows disagreeable — woman 
is to blame; the dawn of a new life begins to glow, 
ideals turn up —and again look for the woman. 
. . . He only derives enjoyment from books and 
pictures in which there is woman. Our age is, to 
his thinking, poor and inferior to the forties and 
the sixties only because we do not know how to 
abandon ourselves obliviously to the passion and 
ecstasy of love. These voluptuaries must have in 
their brains a special growth of the nature of sar- 
coma, which stifles the brain and directs their whole 
psychology. Watch Laevsky when he is sitting 
anywhere in company. You notice: when one raises 
any general question in his presence, for instance, 
about the cell or instinct, he sits apart, and neither 
speaks nor listens; he looks languid and disil- 
lusioned; nothing has any interest for him, every- 
thing is vulgar and trivial. But as soon as you 
speak of male and female — for instance, of the 
fact that the female spider, after fertilisation, de- 
vours the male —his eyes glow with curiosity, his 
face brightens, and the man revives, in fact. All 
his thoughts, however noble, lofty, or neutral they 
may be, they all have one point of resemblance. 
You walk along the street with him and meet a don- 
key, foranstance.. . .. Tell me; please;iphegasks; 
‘what would happen if you mated a donkey with a 
camel?’ And his dreams! Has he told you of 


The Duel 35 


his dreams? It is magnificent! First, he dreams 
that he is married to the moon, then that he is sum- 
moned before the police and ordered to live with a 
euitan 515322 

The deacon burst into resounding laughter; 
Samoylenko frowned and wrinkled up his face 
angrily so as not to laugh, but could not restrain 
himself, and laughed. 

“And it’s all nonsense!” he said, wiping his 
tears. ‘‘ Yes, by Jove, it’s nonsense! ” 


IV 


The deacon was very easily amused, and laughed 
at every trifle till he got a stitch in his side, till he 
was helpless. It seemed as though he only liked to 
be in people’s company because there was a ridicu- 
lous side to them, and because they might be given 
ridiculous nicknames. He had nicknamed Samoy- 
lenko “the tarantula,” his orderly “the drake,” 
and was in ecstasies when on one occasion Von 
Koren spoke of Laevsky and Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna as “Japanese monkeys.’’ He watched 
people’s faces greedily, listened without blinking, 
and it could be seen that his eyes filled with laughter 
and his face was tense with expectation of the 
moment when he could let himself go and burst into 
laughter. 

“He is a corrupt and depraved type,” the 
zoologist continued, while the deacon kept his eyes 


36 The Tales of Chekhov 


riveted on his face, expecting he would say some- 
thing funny. ‘It is not often one can meet with 
such a nonentity. In body he is inert, feeble, pre- 
maturely old, while in intellect he differs in no re- 
spect from a fat shopkeeper’s wife who does nothing 
but eat, drink, and sleep on a feather-bed, and who 
keeps her coachman as a lover.” 

The deacon began guffawing again. 

‘ Donit: laugh; meacon;)’s‘said) Von Korensiey ie 
grows stupid, at last. I should not have paid at- 
tention to his insignificance,’ he went on, after 
waiting till the deacon had left off laughing; ‘I 
should have passed him by if he were not so noxious 
and dangerous. His noxiousness lies first of all 
in the fact that he has great success with women, 
and so threatens to leave descendants — that is, to 
present the world with a dozen Laevskys as feeble 
and as depraved as himself. Secondly, he is in the 
highest degree contaminating. I have spoken to 
you already of vint and beer. In another year or 
two he will dominate the whole Caucasian coast. 
You know how the mass, especially its middle 
stratum, believe in intellectuality, in a university 
education, in gentlemanly manners, and in literary 
language. Whatever filthy thing he did, they would 
all believe that it was as it should be, since he is an 
intellectual man, of liberal ideas and university edu- 
cation. What is more, he is a failure, a superfluous 
man, a neurasthenic, a victim of the age, and that 
means he can do anything. He is a charming fel- 


The Duel B07 


low, a regular good sort, he is so genuinely indul- 
gent to human weaknesses; he is compliant, accom- 
modating, easy and not proud; one can drink with 
him and gossip and talk evil of people. . . . The 
masses, always inclined to anthropomorphism in 
religion and morals, like best of all the little gods 
who have the same weaknesses as_ themselves. 
Only think what a wide field he has for contamina- 
tion! Besides, he is not a bad actor and is a clever 
hypocrite, and knows very well how to twist things 
round. Only take his little shifts and dodges, his 
attitude to civilisation, for instance. He _ has 
scarcely sniffed at civilisation, yet: “Ah, how we 
have been crippled by civilisation! Ah, how I envy 
those savages, those children of nature, who know 
nothing of civilisation!’ We are to understand, 
you see, that at one time, in ancient days, he has 
been devoted to civilisation with his whole soul, has 
served it, has sounded it to its depths, but it has 
exhausted him, disillusioned him, deceived him; he 
is a Faust, do you see? —a second Tolstoy... . 
As for Schopenhauer and Spencer, he treats them 
like small boys and slaps them on the shoulder in a 
fatherly way: ‘Well, what do you say, old 
Spencer?’ He has not read Spencer, of course, but 
how charming he is when with light, careless irony 
he says of his lady friend: ‘She has read 
Spencer!’ And they all listen to him, and no one 
cares to understand that this charlatan has not the 
right to kiss the sole of Spencer’s foot, let alone 


& 


38 The Tales of Chekhov 


speaking about him in that tone! Sapping the 
foundations of civilisation, of authority, of other 
people’s altars, spattering them with filth, winking 
jocosely at them only to justify and conceal one’s 
own rottenness and moral poverty is only possible 
for a very vain, base, and nasty creature.” 

“T don’t know what it is you expect of him, 
Kolya,” said Samoylenko, looking at the zoologist, 
not with anger now, but with a guilty air. “ He 
is a man the same as every one else. Of course, he 
has his weaknesses, but he is abreast of modern 
ideas, is in the service, is of use to his country. 
Ten years ago there was an old fellow serving as 
agent here, a man of the greatest intelligence . . . 
and he used to say .. .” 

“Nonsense, nonsense!” the zoologist  inter- 
rupted. ‘“‘ You say he is in the service; but how 
does he serve? Do you mean to tell me that things 
have been done better because he is here, and the 
officials are more punctual, honest, and civil? On 
the contrary, he has only sanctioned their slackness 
by his prestige as an intellectual university man. 
He is only punctual on the 20th of the month, when 
he gets his salary; on the other days he lounges 
about at home in slippers and tries to look as if he 
were doing the Government a great service by living 
in the Caucasus. No, Alexandr Daviditch, don’t 
stick up for him. You are insincere from beginning 
to end. If you really loved him and considered 
him your neighbour, you would above all not be in- 


The Duel 39 


different to his weaknesses, you would not be indul- 
gent to them, but for his own sake would try to 
make him innocuous.” 

me hat lis 27 

““Tnnocuous. Since he is meorrigible, he can only 
be made innocuous in one way... .’’ Von Koren 
passed his finger round his throat. “Or he might 
be drowned ...,” he added. ‘‘In the interests 
of humanity and in their own interests, such people 
ought to be destroyed. ‘They certainly ought.”’ 

‘What are you saying?”’ muttered Samoylenko, 
gettting up and looking with amazement at the 
zoologist’s calm, cold face. ‘‘ Deacon, what is he 
saying? Why—are you in your senses?” 

‘““T don’t insist on the death penalty,” said Von 
Koren. “If it is proved that it is pernicious, devise , 
something else. If we can’t destroy Laevsky, why 
then, isolate him, make him harmless, send him to 
hard labour.” 

‘““What are you saying!” said Samoylenko in 
horror. ‘‘ With pepper, with pepper,” he cried in 
a voice of despair, seeing that the deacon was eating 
stuffed aubergines without pepper. ‘“‘ You with 
your great intellect, what are you saying! Send our 
friend, a proud intellectual man, to penal 
servitude! ” 

“Well, if he is proud and tries to resist, put him 
in fetters!”’ 

Samoylenko could not utter a word, and only 
twiddled his fingers; the deacon looked at his 


40 The Tales of Chekhov 


flabbergasted and really absurd face, and laughed. 

“Let us leave off talking of that,’’ said the 
zoologist. ‘‘Only remember one thing, Alexandr 
Daviditch: primitive man was preserved from such 
as Laevsky by the struggle for existence and by 
natural selection; now our civilisation has consider- 
ably weakened the struggle and the selection, and 
we ought to look after the destruction of the rotten 
and worthless for ourselves; otherwise, when the 
Laevskys multiply, civilisation will perish and man- 
kind will degenerate utterly. It will be our fault.” 

“Tf it depends on drowning and hanging,” said 
Samoylenko, ‘‘damnation take your civilisation, 
damnation take your humanity! Damnation take 
it! I tell you what: you are a very learned and 
intelligent man and the pride of your country, but 
the Germans have ruined you. Yes, the Germans! 
The Germans! ” 

Since Samoylenko had left Dorpat, where he had 
studied medicine, he had rarely seen a German and 
had not read a single German book, but, in his 
opinion, every harmful idea in politics or science was 
due to the Germans. Where he had got this notion 
he could not have said himself, but he held it firmly. 

“Yes, the Germans!” he repeated once more. 
“Come and have some tea.” 

All three stood up, and putting on their hats, 
went out into the little garden, and sat there under 
the shade of the light green maples, the pear-trees, 
and a chestnut-tree. ‘The zoologist and the deacon 


The Duel Al 


sat on a bench by the table, while Samoylenko sank 
into a deep wicker chair with a sloping back. The 
orderly handed them tea, jam, and a bottle of syrup. 

It was very hot, thirty degrees Réaumur in the 
shade. ‘The sultry air was stagnant and motionless, 
and a long spider-web, stretching from the chest- 
nut-tree to the ground, hung limply and did not 
stir. 

The deacon took up the guitar, which was con- 
stantly lying on the ground near the table, tuned 
it, and began singing softly in a thin voice: 


““ Gathered round the tavern were the seminary lads,’ ” 


but instantly subsided, overcome by the heat, 
mopped his brow and glanced upwards at the blaz- 
ing blue sky. Samoylenko grew drowsy; the sultry 
heat, the stillness and the delicious after-dinner 
languor, which quickly pervaded all his limbs, made 
him feel heavy and sleepy; his arms dropped at his 
sides, his eyes grew small, his head sank on his 
breast. He looked with almost tearful tenderness 
at Von Koren and the deacon, and muttered: 

‘The younger generation. . . . A scientific star 
and a luminary of the Church. . . . I shouldn't 
wonder if the long-skirted alleluia will be shooting 
up into a bishop; I dare say I may come to kissing 
emiand.. . . Wells. ..please God... 4 

Soon a snore was heard. Von Koren and the 
deacon finished their tea and went out into the 
street. 


42 The Tales of Chekhoy 


“Are you going to the harbour again to catch 
sea-gudgeon?”’ asked the zoologist. 

‘No, it’s £ooshot: 

‘“Come and see me. You can pack up a parcel 
and copy something for me. By the way, we must 
have a talk about what you are to do. You must 
work, deacon. You can’t go on like this.” 

‘Your words are just and logical,” said the 
deacon. ‘‘ But my laziness finds an excuse in the 
circumstances of my present life. You know your- 
self that an uncertain position has a great tendency 
to make people apathetic. God only knows 
whether I have been sent here for a time or per- 
manently. I am living here in uncertainty, while 
my wife is vegetating at her father’s and is missing 
me. And I must confess my brain is melting with 
fle sae diem 

‘’That’s all nonsense,” said the zoologist. ‘“* You 
can get used to the heat, and you can get used to 
being without the deaconess. You mustn’t be slack; 
you must pull yourself together.” 


V 


Nadyezhda Fyodorovna went to bathe in the 
morning, and her cook, Olga, followed her with 
a jug, a copper basin, towels, and a sponge. In 
the bay stood two unknown steamers with dirty 
white funnels, obviously foreign cargo vessels. 
Some men dressed in white and wearing white shoes 


The Duel 43 


were walking along the harbour, shouting loudly 
in French, and were answered from the steamers. 
The bells were ringing briskly in the little church 
of the town. 

“To-day is Sunday!’ Nadyezhda Fyodorovna 
remembered with pleasure. 

She felt perfectly well, and was in a gay holiday 
humour. In a new loose-fitting dress of coarse 
thick tussore silk, and a big wide-brimmed straw 
hat which was bent down over her ears, so that 
her face looked out as though from a basket, she 
fancied she looked very charming. She thought 
that in the whole town there was only one young, 
pretty, intellectual woman, and that was herself, and 
that she was the only one who knew how to dress 
herself cheaply, elegantly, and with taste. That 
dress, for example, cost only twenty-two roubles, 
and yet how charming it was! In the whole town 
she was the only one who could be attractive, while 
there were numbers of men, so they must all, whether 
they would or not, be envious of Laevsky. 

She was glad that of late Laevsky had been cold 
to her, reserved and polite, and at times even harsh 
and rude; in the past she had met all his outbursts, 
all his contemptuous, cold or strange incomprehen- 
sible glances, with tears, reproaches, and threats to 
leave him or to starve herself to death; now she 
only blushed, looked guiltily at him, and was glad 
he was not affectionate to her. If he had abused 
her, threatened her, it would have been better and 


A4 The Tales of Chekhov 


pleasanter, since she felt hopelessly guilty towards 
him. She felt she was to blame, in the first place, 
for not sympathising with the dreams of a life of 
hard work, for the sake of which he had given up 
Petersburg and had come here to the Caucasus, 
and she was convinced that he had been angry with 
her of late for precisely that. When she was 
travelling to the Caucasus, it seemed that she would 
find here on the first day a cosy nook by the sea, 
a snug little garden with shade, with birds, with 
little brooks, where she could grow flowers and vege- 
tables, rear ducks and hens, entertain her neigh- 
bours, doctor poor peasants and distribute little 
books amongst them. It had turned out that the 
Caucasus was nothing but bare mountains, forests, 
and huge valleys, where it took a long time and 
a great deal of effort to find anything and settle 
down; that there were no neighbours of any sort; 
that it was very hot and one might be robbed. 
Laevsky had been in no hurry to obtain a piece of 
land; she was glad of it, and they seemed to be in 
a tacit compact never to allude to a life of hard 
work. He was silent about it, she thought, because 
he was angry with her for being silent about it. 

In the second place, she had without his knowl- 
edge during those two years bought various trifles 
to the value of three hundred roubles at Atch- 
mianov’s shop. She had bought the things by de- 
grees, at one time materials, at another time silk or 
a parasol, and the debt had grown imperceptibly. 


The Duel AS 


“‘T will tell him about it to-day .. .,” she used 
to decide, but at once reflected that in Laevsky’s 
present mood it would hardly be convenient to talk 
to him of debts. 

Thirdly, she had on two occasions in Laevsky’s 
absence received a visit from Kirilin, the police cap- 
tain: once in the morning when Laevsky had gone 
to bathe, and another time at midnight when he 
was playing cards. Remembering this, Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna flushed crimson, and looked round at 
the cook as though she might overhear her thoughts. 
The long, insufferably hot, wearisome days, beauti- 
ful languorous evenings and stifling nights, and the 
whole manner of living, when from morning to night 
one is at a loss to fill up the useless hours, and the 
persistent thought that she was the prettiest young 
woman in the town, and that her youth was passing 
and being wasted, and Laevsky himself, though hon- 
est and idealistic, always the same, always lounging 
about in his slippers, biting his nails, and wearying 
her with his caprices, led by degrees to her becom- 
ing possessed by desire, and as though she were 
mad, she thought of nothing else day and night. 
Breathing, looking, walking, she felt nothing but 
desire. The sound of the sea told her she must 
love; the darkness of evening — the same; the moun- 
tains —the same. ... And when Kirilin began 
paying her attentions, she had neither the power nor 
the wish to resist, and surrendered to him. . 

Now the foreign steamers and the men in white 


46 The Tales of Chekhov 


reminded her for some reason of a huge hall; to- 
gether with the shouts of French she heard the 
strains of a waltz, and her bosom heaved with un- 
accountable delight. She longed to dance and talk 
French. 

She reflected joyfully that there was nothing ter- 
rible about her infidelity. Her soul had no part 
in her infidelity; she still loved Laevsky, and that 
was proved by the fact that she was jealous of him, 
was sorry for him, and missed him when he was 
away. Kirilin had turned out to be very mediocre, 
rather coarse though handsome; everything was 
broken off with him already and there would never 
be anything more. What had happened was over; 
it had nothing to do with any one, and if Laevsky 
found it out he would not believe in it. 

There was only one bathing-house for ladies on 
the sea-front; men bathed under the open sky. Go- 
ing into the bathing-house, Nadyezhda Fyodorovna 
found there an elderly lady, Marya Konstantinovna 
Bityugov, and her daughter Katya, a schoolgirl of 
fifteen; both of them were sitting on a bench un- 
dressing. Marya Konstantinovna was a good-na- 
tured, enthusiastic, and genteel person, who talked 
in a drawling and pathetic voice. She had been a 
governess until she was thirty-two, and then had 
married Bityugov, a Government official —a bald 
little man with his hair combed on to his temples 
and with a very meek disposition. She was still in 
love with him, was jealous, blushed at the word 


The Duel 47 


‘love,’ and told every one she was very happy. 

‘“My dear,” she cried enthusiastically, on seeing 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, assuming an expression 
which all her acquaintances called ‘‘ almond-oily.”’ 
“My dear, how delightful that you have come! 
We'll bathe together — that’s enchanting! ” 

Olga quickly flung off her dress and chemise, and 
began undressing her mistress. 

‘““Tt’s not quite so hot to-day as yesterday?” said 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, shrinking at the coarse 
touch of the naked cook. ‘ Yesterday I almost 
died of the heat.” 

“Oh, yes, my dear; I could hardly breathe my- 
self. Would you believe it? I bathed yesterday 
three times! Just imagine, my dear, three times! 
Nikodim Alexandritch was quite uneasy.” 

‘Ts it possible to be so ugly?” thought Nady- 
ezhda Fyodorovna, looking at Olga and the of- 
ficial’s wife; she glanced at Katya and thought: 
“The little girl’s not badly made.” 

“Your Nikodim Alexandritch is very charming! ” 
she said. ‘I’m simply in love with him.” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” cried Marya Konstantinovna, 
with a forced laugh; “ that’s quite enchanting.” 

Free from her clothes, Nadyezhda Fyodorovna 
felt a desire to fly. And it seemed to her that if 
she were to wave her hands she would fly upwards. 
When she was undressed, she noticed that Olga 
looked scornfully at her white body. Olga, a young 
soldier's wife, was living with her lawful husband, 


48 The Tales of Chekhov 


and so considered herself superior to her mistress. 
Marya Konstantinovna and Katya were afraid of 
her, and did not respect her. This was disagreea- 
ble, and to raise herself in their opinion, Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna said: 

‘““ At home, in Petersburg, summer villa life is at 
its height now. My husband and I have so many 
friends! We ought to go and see them.” 

‘““T believe your husband is an engineer?” said 
Marya Konstantinovna timidly. 

““T am speaking of Laevsky. He has a great 
many acquaintances. But unfortunately his mother 
is a proud aristocrat, not very intelligent. . . .” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna threw herself into the 
water without finishing; Marya Konstantinovna and 
Katya made their way in after her. 

‘““ There are so many conventional ideas in the 
world,” Nadyezhda Fyodorovna went on, “‘ and life 
is not so easy as it seems.” 

Marya Konstantinovna, who had been a gover- 
ness in aristocratic families and who was an authority 
on social matters, said: 

““Oh yes! Would you believe me, my dear, at 
the Garatynskys’ I was expected to dress for lunch 
as well as for dinner, so that, like an actress, I re- 
ceived a special allowance for my wardrobe in addi- 
tion to my salary.” 

She stood between Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and 
Katya as though to screen her daughter from the 
water that washed the former. 


The Duel 49 


Through the open doors looking out to the sea 
they could see some one swimming a hundred paces 
from their bathing-place. 

*“ Mother, it’s our Kostya,”’ said Katya. 

“Ach, ach!”’ Marya Konstantinovna cackled in 
her dismay. ‘“‘ Ach, Kostya!”’ she shouted, ‘‘ Come 
back! Kostya, come back!” 

Kostya, a boy of fourteen, to show off his 
prowess before his mother and sister, dived and 
swam farther, but began to be exhausted and hur- 
ried back, and from his strained and serious face 
it could be seen that he could not trust his own 
strength. 

‘The trouble one has with these boys, my dear! ” 
said Marya Konstantinovna, growing calmer. ‘“ Be- 
fore you can turn round, he will break his neck 
Ah, my dear, how sweet it is, and yet at the same 
time how difficult, to be a mother! One’s afraid of 
everything.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna put on her straw hat and 
dashed out into the open sea. She swam some thirty 
feet and then turned on her back. She could see the 
sea to the horizon, the steamers, the people on the 
sea-front, the town; and all this, together with the 
sultry heat and the soft, transparent waves, excited 
her and whispered that she must live, live... . 
A sailing-boat darted by her rapidly and vigorously, 
cleaving the waves and the air; the man sitting at 
the helm looked at her, and she liked being looked 
Ge) elie 6 


50 The Tales of Chekhov 


After bathing, the ladies dressed and went away 
together. 

‘“‘T have fever every alternate day, and yet I don’t 
get thin,” said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, licking her 
lips, which were salt from the bathe, and respond- 
ing with a smile to the bows of her acquaintances. 
‘“T’ve always been plump, and now I believe I’m 
plumper than ever.” 

“That, my dear, is constitutional. If, like me, 
one has no constitutional tendency to stoutness, no 
diet is of any use. . . . But you’ve wetted your hat, 
my dear.” 

“Tt doesn’t matter; it will dry.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna saw again the men in 
white who were walking on the sea-front and talking 
French; and again she felt a sudden thrill of joy, 
and had a vague memory of some big hall in which 
she had once danced, or of which, perhaps, she had 
once dreamed. And something at the bottom of 
her soul dimly and obscurely whispered to her that 
she was a pretty, common, miserable, worthless 
woman. . 

Marya Konstantinovna stopped at her gate 
and asked her to come in and sit down for a little 
while. 

‘‘Come in, my dear,” she said in an imploring 
voice, and at the same time she looked at Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna with anxiety and hope; perhaps she 
would refuse and not come in! 


The Duel 51 


“With pleasure,” said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, 
accepting. “‘ You know how I love being with 
you!” 

And she went into the house. Marya Konstan- 
tinovna sat her down and gave her coffee, regaled 
her with milk rolls, then showed her photographs 
of her former pupils, the Garatynskys, who were by 
now married. She showed her, too, the examina- 
tion reports of Kostya and Katya. The reports 
were very good, but to make them seem even better, 
she complained, with a sigh, how difficult the lessons 
at school were now. . . . She made much of her 
visitor, and was sorry for her, though at the same 
time she was harassed by the thought that Nady- 
ezhda Fyodorovna might have a corrupting influ- 
ence on the morals of Kostya and Katya, and was 
glad that her Nikodim Alexandritch was not at 
home. Seeing that in her opinion all men are fond 
of “‘ women like that,’ Nadyezhda Fyodorovna 
might have a bad effect on Nikodim Alexandritch 
too. 

As she talked to her visitor, Marya Konstan- 
tinovna kept remembering that they were to have 
a picnic that evening, and that Von Koren had 
particularly begged her to say nothing about it 
to the “ Japanese monkeys ’”’— that is, Laevsky and 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna; but she dropped a word 
about it unawares, crimsoned, and said in confu- 
sion: 

‘“‘T hope you will come too!” 


52 The Tales of Chekhov 


VI 


It was agreed to drive about five miles out of 
town on the road to the south, to stop near a duhan 
at the junction of two streams —the Black River 
and the Yellow River—and to cook fish soup. 
They started out soon after five. Foremost of the 
party in a char-a-banc drove Samoylenko and Laev- 
sky; they were followed by Marya Konstantinovna, 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, Katya and Kostya, in a 
coach with three horses, carrying with them the 
crockery and a basket with provisions. In the next 
carriage came the police captain, Kirilin, and the 
young Atchmianoy, the son of the shopkeeper to 
whom Nadyezhda Fyodorovna owed three hundred 
roubles; opposite them, huddled up on the little seat 
with his feet tucked under him, sat Nikodim Alex- 
andritch, a neat little man with hair combed on to 
his temples. Last of all came Von Koren and the 
deacon; at the deacon’s feet stood a basket of fish. 

‘““ R-r-right! ’? Samoylenko shouted at the top of 
his voice when he met a cart or a mountaineer riding 
on a donkey. 

‘In two years’ time, when I shall have the means 
and the people ready, I shall set off on an expedi- 
tion,” Von Koren was telling the deacon. ‘I shall 
go by the sea-coast from Vladivostok to the Behring 
Straits, and then from the Straits to the mouth of 
the Yenisei. We shall make the map, study the 
fauna and the flora, and make detailed geological, _ 


The Duel 53 


anthropological, and ethnographical researches. It 
depends upon you to go with me or not.”’ 

‘It’s impossible,” said the deacon. 

(39 Why? ” 

‘I’m a man with ties and a family.” 

“Your wife will let you go; we will provide for 
her. Better still if you were to persuade her for 
the public benefit to go into a nunnery; that would 
make it possible for you to become a monk, too, and 
join the expedition as a priest. I can arrange it for 
you.” 

The deacon was silent. 

“Do you know your theology well?” asked the 
zoologist. 

“No, rather badly.” 

“H’m! . .. I can’t give you any advice on that 
score, because I don’t know much about theology 
myself. You give me a list of books you need, and 
I will send them to you from Petersburg in the win- 
ter. It will be necessary for you to read the notes 
of religious travellers, too; among them are some 
good ethnologists and Oriental scholars. When 
you are familiar with their methods, it will be easier 
for you to set to work. And you needn’t waste 
your time till you get the books; come to me, and we 
will study the compass and go through a course of 
meteorology. All that’s indispensable.” 

“To be sure . . .”” muttered the deacon, and he 
laughed. ‘I was trying to get a place in Central 
Russia, and my uncle, the head priest, promised to 


54 The Tales of Chekhov 


help me. If I go with you I shall have troubled 
them for nothing.”’ 

‘‘T don’t understand your hesitation. If you go 
on being an ordinary deacon, who is only obliged 
to hold a service on holidays, and on the other days 
can rest from work, you will be exactly the same as 
you are now in ten years’ time, and will have gained 
nothing but a beard and moustache; while on return- 
ing from this expedition in ten years’ time you will 
be a different man, you will be enriched by the con- 
sciousness that something has been done by you.” 

From the ladies’ carriage came shrieks of terror 
and delight. The carriages were driving along a 
road hollowed in a literally overhanging precipitous 
cliff, and it seemed to every one that they were 
galloping along a shelf on a steep wall, and that 
in a moment the carriages would drop into the abyss. 
On the right stretched the sea; on the left was a 
rough brown wall with black blotches and red veins 
and with climbing roots; while on the summit stood 
shaggy fir-trees bent over, as though looking down 
in terror and curiosity. A minute later there were 
shrieks and laughter again: they had to drive under 
a huge overhanging rock. 

““T don’t know why the devil I’m coming with 
you,” said Laevsky. ‘‘ How stupid and vulgar it 
is! I want to go to the North, to run away, to 
escape; but here I am, for some reason, going to this 
stupid picnic.” 

“But look, what a view!” said Samoylenko as 


The Duel Ss 


the horses turned to the left, and the valley of the 
Yellow River came into sight and the stream itself 
gleamed in the sunlight, yellow, turbid, frantic. 

““T see nothing fine in that, Sasha,’ answered 
Laevsky. ‘‘ To be in continual ecstasies over nature 
shows poverty of imagination. In comparison with 
what my imagination can give me, all these streams 
and rocks are trash, and nothing else.” 

The carriages now were by the banks of the stream. 
The high mountain banks gradually grew closer, the 
valley shrank together and ended in a gorge; the 
rocky mountain round which they were driving had 
been piled together by nature out of huge rocks, 
pressing upon each other with such terrible weight, 
that Samoylenko could not help gasping every time 
he looked at them. The dark and beautiful moun- 
tain was cleft in places by narrow fissures and gorges 
from which came a breath of dewy moisture and 
mystery; through the gorges could be seen other 
mountains, brown, pink, lilac, smoky, or bathed in 
vivid sunlight. From time to time as they passed 
a gorge they caught the sound of water falling from 
the heights and splashing on the stones. 

‘* Ach, the damned mountains!” sighed Laevsky. 
“* How sick I am of them! ”’ 

At the place where the Black River falls into the 
Yellow, and the water black as ink stains the yellow 
and struggles with it, stood the Tatar Kerbalay’s 
duhan, with the Russian flag on the roof and with 
an inscription written in chalk: ‘“‘ The Pleasant 


56 The Tales of Chekhov 


Duhan.”’ Near it was a little garden, enclosed in 
a hurdle fence, with tables and chairs set out in it, 
and in the midst of a thicket of wretched thorn- 
bushes stood a single solitary cypress, dark and beau- 
tiful. 

Kerbalay, a nimble little Tatar in a blue shirt and 
a white apron, was standing in the road, and, hold- 
ing his stomach, he bowed low to welcome the car- 
riages, and smiled, showing his glistening white 
teeth. 

‘‘ Good-evening, Kerbalay,” shouted Samoylenko. 
‘““We are driving on a little further, and you take 
along the samovar and chairs! Look sharp!” 

Kerbalay nodded his shaven head and muttered 
something, and only those sitting in the last carriage 
could hear: ‘‘ We’ve got trout, your Excellency.” 

“‘ Bring them, bring them!” said Von Koren. 

Five hundred paces from the duhan the carriages 
stopped. Samoylenko selected a small meadow 
round which there were scattered stones convenient 
for sitting on, and a fallen tree blown down by the 
storm with roots overgrown by moss and dry yel- 
low needles. Here there was a fragile wooden 
bridge over the stream, and just opposite on the 
other bank there was a little barn for drying maize, 
standing on four low piles, and looking like the hut 
on hen’s legs in the fairy tale; a little ladder sloped 
from its door. 

The first impression in all was a feeling that they 
would never get out of that place again. On all 


’ 


The Duel 57 


sides wherever they looked, the mountains rose up 
and towered above them, and the shadows of eve- 
ning were stealing rapidly, rapidly from the duhan 
and dark cypress, making the narrow winding valley 
of the Black River narrower and the mountains 
higher. They could hear the river murmuring and 
the unceasing chirrup of the grasshoppers. 

‘““Enchanting!’’ said Marya _ Konstantinovna, 
heaving deep sighs of ecstasy. ‘‘ Children, look 
how fine! What peace! ” 

“Yes, it really is fine,’’ assented Laevsky, who 
liked the view, and for some reason felt sad as he 
looked at the sky and then at the blue smoke rising 
from the chimney of the duhan. ‘“‘ Yes, it is fine,” 
he repeated. 

‘Ivan Andreitch, describe this view,’ Marya 
Konstantinovna said tearfully. 

“Why?” asked Laevsky. ‘‘ The impression is 
better than any description. ‘The wealth of sights 
and sounds which every one receives from nature 
by direct impression is ranted about by authors in 
a hideous and unrecognisable way.” 

‘ Really?” Von Koren asked coldly, choosing the 
biggest stone by the side of the water, and trying 
to clamber up and sit upon it. ‘“‘ Really?” he re- 
peated, looking directly at Laevsky. ‘‘ What of 
‘Romeo and Juliet’? Or, for instance, Pushkin’s 
‘Night in the Ukraine’? Nature ought to come 
and bow down at their feet.” 

“‘ Perhaps,” said Laevsky, who was too lazy to 


58 The Tales of Chekhov 


think and oppose him. ‘‘ Though what is ‘ Romeo 
and Juliet’ after all?” he added after a short pause. 
“The beauty of poetry and holiness of love are 
simply the roses under which they try to hide its 
rottenness. Romeo is just the same sort of animal 
as all the rest of us.” 

“Whatever one talks to you about, you always 
bring it round to...” Von Keven glanced round 
at Katya and broke off. 

‘What do I bring it round to?”’ asked Laevsky. 

‘One tells you, for instance, how beautiful a 
bunch of grapes is, and you answer: ‘ Yes, but how 
ugly it is when it is chewed and digested in one’s 
stomach!’ Why say that? It’s notnew, and... 
altogether it is a queer habit.” 

Laevsky knew that Von Koren did not like him, 
and so was afraid of him, and felt in his presence 
as though every one were constrained and some one 
were standing behind his back. He made no answer 
and walked away, feeling sorry he had come. 

‘Gentlemen, quick march for brushwood for the 
fire!’ commanded Samoylenko. 

They all wandered off in different directions, and 
no one was left but Kirilin, Atchmianov, and Niko- 
dim Alexandritch. Kerbalay brought chairs, spread 
a rug on the ground, and set a few bottles of wine. 

The police captain, Kirilin, tall, good-looking 
man, who in all weathers wore his great-coat over 
his tunic, with his haughty deportment, stately car- 
riage, and thick, rather hoarse voice, looked like a 


The Duel 59 


young provincial chief of police; his expression was 
mournful and sleepy, as though he had just been 
waked against his will. 

‘What have you brought this for, you brute?” 
he asked Kerbalay, deliberately articulating each 
word. “I ordered you to give us kvarel, and what 
have you brought, you ugly Tatar? Eh? What?” 

‘We have plenty of wine of our own, Yegor 
Alekseitch,”” Nikodim Alexandritch observed, tim- 
idly and politely. 

“What? But I want us to have my wine, too; 
I’m taking part in the picnic and I imagine I have 
full right to contribute my share. I im-ma-gine so! 
Bring ten bottles of kvarel.” 

“Why so many?”’ asked Nikodim Alexandritch, 
in wonder, knowing Kirilin had no money. 

‘Twenty bottles! ‘Thirty!’ shouted Kirilin. 

‘* Never mind, let him,” Atchmianov whispered to 
Nikodim Alexandritch; “ I'll pay.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was in a light-hearted, 
mischievous mood; she wanted to skip and jump, 
to laugh, to shout, to tease, to flirt. In her cheap 
cotton dress with blue pansies on it, in her red shoes 
and the same straw hat, she seemed to herself, little, 
simple, light, ethereal as a butterfly. She ran over 
the rickety bridge and looked for a minute into the 
water, in order to feel giddy; then, shrieking and 
laughing, ran to the other side to the drying-shed, 
and she fancied that all the men were admiring her, 
even Kerbalay. When in the rapidly falling dark- 


60 The Tales of Chekhov 


ness the trees began to melt into the mountains and 
the horses into the carriages, and a light gleamed 
in the windows of the duhan, she climbed up the 
mountain by the little path which zigzagged between 
stones and thorn-bushes and sat on a stone. Down 
below, the camp-fire was burning. Near the fire, 
with his sleeves tucked up, the deacon was moving 
to and fro, and his long black shadow kept describ- 
ing a circle round it; he put on wood, and with a 
spoon tied to a long stick he stirred the cauldron. 
Samoylenko, with a copper-red face, was fussing 
round the fire just as though he were in his own 
kitchen, shouting furiously : 

‘‘'Where’s the salt, gentlemen? I bet you’ve for- 
gotten it. Why are you all sitting about like lords 
while I do the work? ” 

Laevsky and Nikodim Alexandritch were sitting 
side by side on the fallen tree looking pensively at 
the fire. Marya Konstantinovna, Katya, and Kostya 
were taking the cups, saucers, and plates out of the 
baskets. Von Koren, with his arms folded and one 
foot on a stone, was standing on a bank at the 
very edge of the water, thinking about something. 
Patches of red light from the fire moved together 
with the shadows over the ground near the dark hu- 
man figures, and quivered on the mountain, on the 
trees, on the bridge, on the drying-shed; on the other 
side the steep, scooped-out bank was all lighted up 
and glimmering in the stream, and the rushing turbid 
water broke its reflection into little bits. 


The Duel 61 


. The deacon went for the fish which Kerbalay was 
cleaning and washing on the bank, but he stood still 
half-way and looked about him. 

‘“ My God, how nice it is!’ he thought. ‘“ Peo- 
ple, rocks, the fire, the twilight, a monstrous tree — 
nothing more, and yet how fine it is!”’ 

On the further bank some unknown persons made 
their appearance near the drying-shed. The flicker- 
ing light and the smoke from the camp-fire puffing 
in that direction made it impossible to get a full 
view of them all at once, but glimpses were caught 
now of a shaggy hat and a grey beard, now of a 
blue shirt, now of a figure, ragged from shoulder 
to knee, with a dagger across the body; then a 
swarthy young face with black eyebrows, as thick 
and bold as though they had been drawn in char- 
coal. Five of them sat in a circle on the ground, 
and the other five went into the drying-shed. One 
was standing at the door with his back to the fire, 
and with his hands behind his back was telling some- 
thing, which must have been very interesting, for 
when Samoylenko threw on twigs and the fire flared 
up, and scattered sparks and threw a glaring light 
on the shed, two calm countenances with an expres- 
sion on them of deep attention could be seen, looking 
out of the door, while those who were sitting in 
a circle turned round and began listening to the 
speaker. Soon after, those sitting in a circle began 
softly singing something slow and melodious, that 
sounded like Lenten Church music. . . . Listening 


62 The Tales of Chekhov 


to them, the deacon imagined how it would be with 
him in ten years’ time, when he would come back 
from the expedition: he would be a young priest 
and monk, an author with a name and a splendid 
past; he would be consecrated an archimandrite, then 
a bishop; and he would serve mass in the cathedral; 
in a golden mitre he would come out into the body 
of the church with the ikon on his breast, and bless- 
ing the mass of the people with the triple and the 
double candelabra, would proclaim: ‘‘ Look down 
from Heaven, O God, behold and visit this vine- 
yard which Thy Hand has planted,” and the chil- 
dren with their angel voices would sing in response: 
"Holy Gode. 7" 

‘* Deacon, where is that fish?”’ he heard Samoy- 
Jenko’s voice. 

As he went back to the fire, the deacon imagined 
the Church procession going along a dusty road on 
a hot July day; in front the peasants carrying the 
banners and the women and children the ikons, then 
the boy choristers and the sacristan with his face 
tied up and a straw in his hair, then in due order 
himself, the deacon, and behind him the priest wear- 
ing his ca/otte and carrying a cross, and behind them, 
tramping in the dust, a crowd of peasants — men, 
women, and children; in the crowd his wife and the 
priest’s wife with kerchiefs on their heads. The 
choristers sing, the babies cry, the corncrakes call, 
the lark carols. . . . Then they make a stand and 
sprinkle the herd with holy water. ... They go 


The Duel 63 


on again, and then kneeling pray for rain. Then 
lunch and talk... . 
‘“* And that’s nice too . . .” thought the deacon. 


VE 


Kirilin and Atchmianov climbed up the moun- 
tain by the path. Atchmianov dropped behind and 
stopped, while Kirilin went up to Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna. 

‘‘ Good-evening,” he said, touching his cap. 

“* Good-evening.”’ 

“Yes!” said Kirilin, looking at the sky and pon- 
dering. 

“Why ‘yes’?” asked Nadyezhda Fyodorovna 
after a brief pause, noticing that Atchmianov was 
watching them both. 

“‘ And so it seems,” said the officer, slowly, “‘ that 
our love has withered before it has blossomed, so 
to speak. How do you wish me to understand it? 
Is it a sort of coquetry on your part, or do you look 
upon me as a nincompoop who can be treated as you 
choose.”’ 

‘“It was a mistake! Leave me alone!’ Nady- 
ezhda Fyodorovna said sharply, on that beautiful, 
marvellous evening, looking at him with terror and 
asking herself with bewilderment, could there really 
have been a moment when that man attracted her 
and had been near to her? 

‘So that’s it!’ said Kirilin; he thought in silence 


64 The Tales of Chekhov 


for a few minutes and said: ‘ Well, I'll wait till 
you are in a better humour, and meanwhile I ven- 
ture to assure you I am a gentleman, and I don’t al- 
low any one to doubt it. Adieu!” 

He touched his cap again and walked off, making 
his way between the bushes. After a short interval 
Atchmianov approached hesitatingly. 

‘What a fine evening!” he said with a slight Ar- 
menian accent. 

He was nice-looking, fashionably dressed, and be- 
haved unaffectedly like a well-bred youth, but Nady- 
ezhda Fyodorovna did not like him because she owed 
his father three hundred roubles; it was displeasing 
to her, too, that a shopkeeper had been asked to the 
picnic, and she was vexed at his coming up to her 
that evening when her heart felt so pure. 

‘The picnic is a success altogether,” he said, after 
a pause. 

‘Yes,’ she agreed, and as though suddenly re- 
membering her debt, she said carelessly: “* Oh, tell 
them in your shop that Ivan Andreitch will come 
round in a day or two and will pay three hundred 
roubles. . . . I don’t remember exactly what it is.” 

‘TI would give another three hundred if you would 
not mention that debt every day. Why be pro- 
saic?” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna laughed; the amusing 
idea occurred to her that if she had been willing 
and sufficiently immoral she might in one minute be 
free from her debt. If she, for instance, were to 


The Duel 65 


turn the head of this handsome young fool! How 
amusing, absurd, wild it would be really! And she 
suddenly felt a longing to make him love her, to 
plunder him, throw him over, and then to see what 
would come of it. 

“* Allow me to give you one piece of advice,’’ Atch- 
mianov said timidly. ‘I beg you to beware of 
Kirilin. He says horrible things about you every- 
where.” 

“It doesn’t interest me to know what every fool 
says of me,’ Nadyezhda Fyodorovna said coldly, 
and the amusing thought of playing with handsome 
young Atchmianoy suddenly lost its charm. 

‘“We must go down,” she said; “ they’re calling 
us.” 

The fish soup was ready by now. They were 
ladling it out by platefuls, and eating it with the re- 
ligious solemnity with which this is only done at a 
picnic; and every one thought the fish soup very 
good, and thought that at home they had never eaten 
anything so nice. As is always the case at picnics, 
in the mass of dinner napkins, parcels, useless greasy 
papers fluttering in the wind, no one knew where 
was his glass or where his bread. ‘They poured the 
wine on the carpet and on their own knees, spilt the 
salt, while it was dark all round them and the fire 
burnt more dimly, and every one was too lazy to 
get up and put wood on. They all drank wine, and 
even gave Kostya and Katya half a glass each. 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna drank one glass and then 


66 The Tales of Chekhov 


another, got a little drunk and forgot about Kirilin. 

‘‘ A splendid picnic, an enchanting evening,” said 
Laevsky, growing lively with the wine. “ But I 
should prefer a fine winter to all this. ‘ His beaver 
collar is silver with hoar-frost.’ ” 

‘Every one to his taste,”’ observed Von Koren. 

Laevsky felt uncomfortable; the heat of the camp- 
fire was beating upon his back, and the hatred of 
Von Koren upon his breast and face: this hatred 
on the part of a decent, clever man, a feeling in 
which there probably lay hid a well-grounded rea- 
son, humiliated him and enervated him, and unable 
to stand up against it, he said in a propitiatory 
tone: 

‘““T am passionately fond of nature, and I regret 
that I’m not a naturalist. I envy you.” 

“Well, I don’t envy you, and don’t reget it,” said 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna. “I don’t understand how 
any one can seriously interest himself in beetles and 
ladybirds while the people are suffering.” 

Laevsky shared her opinion. He was absolutely 
ignorant of natural science, and so could never rec- 
oncile himself to the authoritative tone and the 
learned and profound air of the people who devoted 
themselves to the whiskers of ants and the claws of 
beetles, and he always felt vexed that these people, 
relying on these whiskers, claws, and something they 
called protoplasm (he always imagined it in the form 
of an oyster), should undertake to decide questions 
involving the origin and life of man. But in Nady- 


The Duel 67 


ezhda Fyodoroyna’s words he heard a note of fal- 
sity, and simply to contradict her he said: ‘‘ The 
point is not the ladybirds, but the deductions made 
from them.” 


VIII 


It was late, eleven o’clock, when they began to 
get into the carriages to go home. They took their 
seats, and the only ones missing were Nadyezhda 
Fyodoroyna and Atchmianov, who were running 
after one another, laughing, the other side of the 
stream. 

‘“ Make haste, my friends,”’ shouted Samoylenko. 

‘““You oughtn’t to give ladies wine,’ said Von 
Koren in a low voice. 

Laevsky, exhausted by the picnic, by the hatred 
of Von Koren, and by his own thoughts, went to 
meet Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and when, gay and 
happy, feeling light as a feather, breathless and 
laughing, she took him by both hands and laid her 
head on his breast, he stepped back and said dryly: 

“You are behaving like a . . . cocotte.” 

It sounded horribly coarse, so that he felt sorry 
for her at once. On his angry, exhausted face she 
read hatred, pity and vexation with himself, and 
her heart sank at once. She realised instantly that 
she had gone too far, had been too free and easy 
in her behaviour, and overcome with misery, feel- 
ing herself heavy, stout, coarse, and drunk, she got 


7 


68 The Tales of Chekhov 


into the first empty carriage together with Atch- 
mianov. Laevsky got in with Kirilin, the zoologist 
with Samoylenko, the deacon with the ladies, and the 
party set off. 

“You see what the Japanese monkeys are like,” 
Von Koren began, rolling himself up in his cloak 
and shutting his eyes. ‘‘ You heard she doesn’t care 
to take an interest in beetles and ladybirds because 
the people are suffering. That’s how all the Jap- 
anese monkeys look upon people like us. They’re 
a slavish, cunning race, terrified by the whip and the 
fist for ten generations; they tremble and burn in- 
cense only before violence; but let the monkey into 
a free state where there’s no one to take it by the 
collar, and it relaxes at once and shows itself in its 
true colours. Look how bold they are in picture 
galleries, in museums, in theatres, or when they talk 
of science: they puff themselves out and get excited, 
they are abusive and critical . . . they are bound to 
criticise — it’s the sign of the slave. You listen: 
men of the liberal professions are more often sworn 
at than pickpockets — that’s because three-quarters 
of society are made up of slaves, of just such mon- 
keys. It never happens that a slave holds out his 
hand to you and sincerely says ‘ Thank you’ to you 
for your work.” 

‘““T don’t know what you want,” said Samoylenko, 
yawning; “the poor thing, in the simplicity of her 
heart, wanted to talk to you of scientific subjects, and 
you draw a conclusion from that. You’re cross 


The Duel 69 


with him for something or other, and with her, too, 
to keep him company. She’s a splendid woman.”’ 

‘““Ah, nonsense! An ordinary kept woman, de- 
praved and vulgar. Listen, Alexandr Daviditch; 
when you meet a simple peasant woman, who isn’t 
living with her husband, who does nothing but gig- 
gle, you tell her to go and work. Why are you 
timid in this case and afraid to tell the truth? Sim- 
ply because Nadyezhda Fyodorovna is kept, not by 
a sailor, but by an official.” 

‘What am I to do with her?” said Samoylenko, 
getting angry. ‘“‘ Beat her or what?” 

“Not flatter vice. We curse vice only behind 
its back, and that’s like making a long nose at it 
round a corner. I am a zoologist or a sociologist, 
which is the same thing; you are a doctor; society 
believes in us; we ought to point out the terrible 
harm which threatens it and the next generation 
from the existence of ladies like Nadyezhda Ivan- 
ovna.”’ 

‘“Fyodoroyna,” Samoylenka corrected. ‘‘ But 
what ought society to do?” 

‘Society? That’s its affair. To my thinking the 
surest and most direct method is — compulsion. 
Manu militari she ought to be returned to her hus- 
band; and if her husband won’t take her in, then she 
ought to be sent to penal servitude or some house of 
correction.” 

‘“Ouf!’’ sighed Samoylenko. He paused and 
asked quietly: ‘‘ You said the other day that people 


70 The Tales of Chekhov 


like Laevsky ought to be destroyed. . . . Tell me, 
if you. . . if the State or society commissioned you 
to destroy him, could you... bring yourself to 
hei ase 

“My hand would not tremble.” 


IX 


When they got home, Laevsky and Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna went into their dark, stuffy, dull rooms. 
Both were silent. Laevsky lighted a candle, while 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna sat down, and without tak- 
ing off her cloak and hat, lifted her melancholy, 
guilty eyes to him. 

He knew that she expected an explanation from 
him, but an explanation would be wearisome, useless 
and exhausting, and his heart was heavy because 
he had lost control over himself and been rude to 
her. He chanced to feel in his pocket the letter 
which he had been intending every day to read to 
her, and thought if he were to show her that letter 
now, it would turn her thoughts in another direc- 
tion. 

“Tt is time to define our relations,’ he thought. 
““T will give it her; what is to be will be.” 

He took out the letter and gave it her. 

‘Read it. It concerns you.” 

Saying this, he went into his own room and lay 
down on the sofa in the dark without a pillow. 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna read the letter, and it 


The Duel a 


seemed to her as though the ceiling were falling and 
the walls were closing in on her. It seemed sud- 
denly dark and shut in and terrible. She crossed 
herself quickly three times and said: 

MiGive sthim: “peaces(iO. Lord ‘¢on given, him 
Peacesiog 2) 

And she began crying. 

“‘ Vanya,” she called. ‘‘ Ivan Andreitch! ” 

There was no answer. Thinking that Laevsky 
had come in and was standing behind her chair, she 
sobbed like a child, and said: 

‘“Why did you not tell me before that he was 
dead? I wouldn’t have gone to the picnic; I 
shoudn’t have laughed so horribly. . . . The men 
said horrid things to me. What a sin, what a sin! 
Save me, Vanya, save me... . I have been mad. 
feel. am lost. sero.) 

Laevsky heard her sobs. He felt stifled and his 
heart was beating violently. In his misery he got 
up, stood in the middle of the room, groped his way 
in the dark to an easy-chair by the table, and sat 
down. 

“Thisisa prison...” hethought. “I must get 
away, & tlvean't Beaniit.” 

It was too late to go and play cards; there were 
no restaurants in the town. He lay down again and 
covered his ears that he might not hear her sob- 
bing, and he suddenly remembered that he could go 
to Samoylenko. To avoid going near Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna, he got out of the window into the gar- 


72 The Tales of Chekhov 


den, climbed over the garden fence and went along 
the street. It was dark. A steamer, judging by 
its lights, a big passenger one, had just come in... . 
He heard the clank of the anchor chain. A red light 
was moving rapidly from the shore in the direction 
of the steamer: it was the Customs boat going out 
to it. 

‘““ The passengers are asleep in their cabins .. . 
thought Laevsky, and he envied the peace of mind 
of other people. 

The windows in Samoylenko’s house were open. 
Laevsky looked in at one of them, then in at an- 
other; it was dark and still in the rooms. 

‘“ Alexandr Daviditch, are you asleep?” he called. 
“* Alexandr Daviditch! ” 

He heard a cough and an uneasy shout: 

‘“Who’s there? What the devil?” 

“Tt is I, Alexandr Daviditch; excuse me.” 

A little later the door opened; there was a glow 
of soft light from the lamp, and Samoylenka’s huge 
figure appeared all in white, with a white nightcap 
on his head. 

‘““What now?” he asked, scratching himself and 
breathing hard from sleepiness. ‘‘ Wait a minute; 
I'll open the door directly.” 

‘Don’t trouble; I'll get in at the window. . . . 

Laevsky climbed in at the window, and when he 
reached Samoylenko, seized him by the hand. 

‘““ Alexandr Daviditch,” he said in a shaking voice, 
‘““save me! I beseech you, I implore you. Un- 


” 


” 


The Duel =i. 


derstand me! My position is agonising. If it goes 
on for another two days I shall strangle myself like 
aeel. like adog.’ 

“Wait a bit... . What are you talking about 
exactly.f 

“Light a candle.” 

“Oh... oh! .. .” sighed Samoylenko, light- 
ing a candle. ‘My God! My God! ... Why, 
it’s past one, brother.” 

‘* Excuse me, but I can’t stay at home,” said Laev- 
sky, feeling great comfort from the light and the 
presence of Samoylenko. “ You are my best, my 
only friend, Alexandr Daviditch. . . . You are my 
only hope. For God’s sake, come to my rescue, 
whether you want to or not. I must get away from 
here, come what may! . . . Lend me the money!” 

‘“Oh, my God, my God! ... sighed Samoy- 
lenko, scratching himself. ‘‘ I was dropping asleep 
and I hear the whistle of the steamer, and now you 
. - . Do you want much?” 

‘Three hundred roubles at least. I must leave 
her a hundred, and I need two hundred for the jour- 
ney. . . . | owe you about four hundred already, 
bate will send it you: allics:. oval) .....” 

Samoylenko took hold of both his whiskers in 
one hand, and standing with his legs wide apart, pon- 
dered. 

‘Yes ...” he muttered, musing. ‘ Three hun- 
dred. ... Yes. . .. But I haven’t got so much. 
I shall have to borrow it from some one.” 


74 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘ Borrow it, for God’s sake!’ said Laevsky, see- 
ing from Samoylenka’s face that he wanted to lend 
him the money and certainly would lend it. “ Bor- 
row it, and I’ll be sure to pay you back. I will send 
it from Petersburg as soon as I get there. You 
can set your mind at rest about that. I'll tell you 
what, Sasha,” he said, growing more animated; “‘ let 
us have some wine.” 

“Yes . . . we can have some wine, too.” 

They both went into the dining-room. 

““And how about Nadyezhda Fyodorovna?” 
asked Samoylenko, setting three bottles and a plate 
of peaches on the table. ‘‘ Surely she’s not remain- 
ing?” 

‘““T will arrange it all, I will arrange it all,” said 
Laevsky, feeling an unexpected rush of joy. “I will 
send her the money afterwards and she will join 
me. ... Then we will define our relations. To 
your health, friend.” 

‘Wait a bit,’ said Samoylenko. “ Drink this 
first. . . . [his is from my vineyard. This bottle 
is from Navaridze’s vineyard and this one is from 
Ahatulov’s. .. . Try all three kinds and tell me 
candidly. . . . There seems a little acidity about 
mine. Eh? Don’t you taste it?” 

“Yes. You have comforted me, Alexandr 
Daviditch,” Thank you....... I feel betters: 

‘Ts there any acidity?” 

~“ Goodness only knows, I don’t know. But you 
are a splendid, wonderful man! ” 


The Duel 75 


Looking at his pale, excited, good-natured face, 
Samoylenko remembered Von Koren’s view that men 
like that ought to be destroyed, and Laevsky seemed 
to him a weak, defenceless child, whom any one 
could injure and destroy. 

‘* And when you go, make it up with your mother,” 
he said. ‘It’s not right.” 

“Yes, yes; I certainly shall.” 

They were silent for a while. When they had 
emptied the first bottle, Samoylenko said: 

“You ought to make it up with Von Koren too. 
You are both such splendid, clever fellows, and you 
glare at each other like wolves.” 

‘Yes, he’s a fine, very intelligent fellow,’ Laevsky 
assented, ready now to praise and forgive every 
one. ‘‘ He’s a remarkable man, but it’s impossible 
for me to get on with him. No! Our natures are 
too different. I’m an indolent, weak, submissive na- 
ture. Perhaps in a good minute I might hold out 
my hand to him, but he would turn away from me 

. with contempt.” 

Laevsky took a sip of wine, walked from corner 
to corner and went on, standing in the middle of the 
room: 

“T understand Von Koren very weil. His is a 
resolute, strong, despotic nature. You have heard 
him continually talking of ‘the expedition,’ and it’s 
not mere talk. He wants the wilderness, the moon- 
lit night: all around in little tents, under the open 
sky, lie sleeping his sick and hungry Cossacks, guides, 


76 The Tales of Chekhov 


porters, doctor, priest, all exhausted with their 
weary marches, while only he is awake, sitting like 
Stanley on a camp-stool, feeling himself the mon- 
arch of the desert and the master of these men. He 
goes on and on and on, his men groan and die, one 
after another, and he goes on and on, and in the 
end perishes himself, but still is monarch and ruler 
of the desert, since the cross upon his tomb can be 
seen by the caravans for thirty or forty miles over 
the desert. I am sorry the man is not in the army. 
He would have made a splendid military genius. 
He would not have hesitated to drown his cavalry 
in the river and make a bridge out of dead bodies. 
And such hardihood is more needed in war than any 
kind of fortification or strategy. Oh, I understand 
him perfectly! Tell me: why is he wasting his sub- 
stance here? What does he want here?” 

“‘ He is studying the marine fauna.” 

‘*No, no, brother, no!’’ Laevsky sighed. “A 
scientific man who was on the steamer told me the 
Black Sea was poor in animal life, and that in its 
depths, thanks to the abundance of sulphuric hydro- 
gen, organic life was impossible. All the serious 
zoologists work at the biological station at Naples 
or Villefranche. But Von Koren is independent and 
obstinate: he works on the Black Sea because no- 
body else is working there; he is at loggerheads with 
the university, does not care to know his comrades 
and other scientific men because he is first of all a 
despot and only secondly a zoologist. And you'll 


The Duel 77 


see he'll do something. THe is already dreaming 
that when he comes back from his expedition he will 
purify our universities from intrigue and medioc- 
rity, and will make the scientific men mind their ps 
and qs. Despotism is just as strong in science as in 
the army. And he is spending his second summer 
in this stinking little town because he would rather 
be first in a village than second in a town. Here 
he is a king and an eagle; he keeps all the inhabi- 
tants under his thumb and oppresses them with his 
authority. He has appropriated every one, he med- 
dles in other people’s affairs; everything is of use to 
him, and every one is afraid of him. I am slipping 
out of his clutches, he feels that and hates me. 
Hasn’t he told you that I ought to be destroyed or 
sent to hard labour? ”’ 

“ Yes,” laughed Samoylenko. 

Laevsky laughed too, and drank some wine. 

“His ideals are despotic too,” he said, laughing, 
and biting a peach. ‘Ordinary mortals think of 
their neighbour — me, you, man in fact —if they 
work for the common weal. To Von Koren men 
are puppets and nonentities, too trivial to be the 
object of his life. He works, will go for his ex- 
pedition and break his neck there, not for the sake 
of love for his neighbour, but for the sake of such 
abstractions as humanity, future generations, an. 
ideal race of men. He exerts himself for the im- 
provement of the human race, and we are in his eyes 
only slaves, food for the cannon, beasts of burden; 


78 The Tales of Chekhov 


some he would destroy or stow away in Siberia, oth- 
ers he would break by discipline, would, like Arakt- 
cheev, force them to get up and go to bed to the 
sound of the drum; would appoint eunuchs to pre- 
serve our chastity and morality, would order them 
to fire at any one who steps out of the circle of our 
narrow conservative morality; and all this in the 
name of the improvement of the human race... . 
And what is the human race? Illusion, mirage. . . 
despots have always been illusionists. I understand 
him very well, brother. I appreciate him and don’t 
deny his importance; this world rests on men like 
him, and if the world were left only to such men as 
us, for all our good-nature and good intentions, we 
should make as great a mess of it as the flies have 
Ofthat pretures” Wes: 

Laevsky sat down beside Samoylenko, and said 
with genuine feeling: ‘I’m a foolish, worthless, 
depraved man. ‘The air I breathe, this wine, love, 
life in fact — for all that, I have given nothing in 
exchange so far but lying, idleness, and cowardice. 
Till now I have deceived myself and other people; 
I have been miserable about it, and my misery was 
cheap and common. I bow my back humbly before 


Von Koren’s hatred because at times I hate and 


despise myself.” 

Laevsky began again pacing from one end of the 
room to the other in excitement, and said: 

‘“T’m glad I see my faults clearly and am con- 
scious of them. That will help me to reform and 


he 


The Duel "ae 


become a different man. My dear fellow, if only 
you knew how passionately, with what anguish, I 
long for such a change. And I swear to you I'll 
be aman! Iwill! I don’t know whether it is the 
wine that is speaking in me, or whether it really is 
so, but it seems to me that it is long since I have 
spent such pure and lucid moments as I have just 
now with you.” 

‘‘Tt’s time to sleep, brother,” said Samoylenko. 

MViessyes.) = 0.0), Excuse:me; Pll.go directly.” 

Laevsky moved hurriedly about the furniture and 
windows, looking for his cap. 

‘Thank you,” he muttered, sighing. ‘“ Thank 
you. . . . Kind and friendly words are better than 
charity. You have given me new life.” - 

He found his cap, stopped, and looked guiltily at 
Samoylenko. 

‘“‘ Alexandr Daviditch,” he said in an imploring 
voice. 

fr Wihatsis! it ?)? 

““Let me stay the night with you, my dear 
fellow!” 

i Cextainly:ose 2’ gWhy)not?,”; 

Laevsky lay down on the sofa, and went on talk- 
ing to the doctor for a long time. 


X 


Three days after the picnic. Marya Konstan- 
tinovna unexpectedly called on Nadyezhda Fyo- 


80 The Tales of Chekhov 


dorovna, and without greeting her or taking off her 
hat, seized her by both hands, pressed them to her 
breast and said in great excitement: 

‘““ My dear, I am deeply touched and moved: our 
dear kind-hearted doctor told my Nikodim Alex- 
andritch yesterday that your husband was dead. 


Vell me; my*dearieatell me, isuttruen ht 
‘Yes, it’s true; he is dead,” answered Nadyezhda 
Fyodoroyna. 


“That is awtul, ‘awful; my dear! <-Butstheress 
no evil without some compensation; your hus- 
band was no doubt a noble, wonderful, holy man, 
and such are more needed in Heaven than on 
earths 

Every line and feature in Marya Konstantinovna’s 
face began quivering as though little needles were 
jumping up and down under her skin; she gave an 
almond-oily smile and_ said, breathlessly, en- 
thusiastically: 

“And so you are free, my dear. You can hold 
your head high now, and look people boldly in the 
face. Henceforth God and man will bless your 
union with Ivan Andreitch. It’s enchanting. I am 
trembling with joy, I can find no words. My dear, 
I will give you away. . . . Nikodim Alexandritch 
and I have been so fond of you, you will allow us 
to give our blessing to your pure, lawful union. 
When, when do you think of being married? ”’ 

‘“T haven’t thought of it,” said Nadyezhda Fyo- 
doroyna, freeing her hands. 


The Duel 81 


‘““ That’s impossible, my dear. You have thought 
of it, you have.” 

‘“Upon my word, I haven’t,” said Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna, laughing. ‘‘ What should we be mar- 
ried for? I see no necessity for it. We'll go on 
living as we have lived.” 

‘What are you saying!” cried Marya Konstan- 
tinovna in horror. “ For God’s sake, what are you 
saying!” 

“Our getting married won’t make things any bet- 
ter. On the contrary, it will make them even worse. 
We shall lose our freedom.” 

‘““ My dear, my dear, what are you saying!” ex- 
claimed Marya Konstantinovna, stepping back and 
flinging up her hands. “ You are talking wildly! 
Think what you are saying. You must settle 
down!” 

‘““* Settle down.’ How do you mean? I have 
not lived yet, and you tell me to settle down.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna reflected that she really 
had not lived. She had finished her studies in a 
boarding-school and had been married to a man 
she did not love; then she had thrown in her lot 
with Laevsky, and had spent all her time with him 
on this empty, desolate coast, always expecting 
something better. Was that life? 

““T ought to be married though,” she thought, 
but remembering Kirilin and Atchmianoyvy she flushed 
and said: 

‘““No, it’s impossible. Even if Ivan Andreitch 


82 The Tales of Chekhov 


begged me to on his knees — even then I would 
refuse.” 

Marya Konstantinovna sat on the sofa for a 
minute in silence, grave and mournful, gazing fixedly 
into space; then she got up and said coldly: 

‘Good-bye, my dear! Forgive me for having 
troubled you. Though it’s not easy for me, it’s 
my duty to tell you that from this day all is over 
between us, and, in spite of my profound respect 
for Ivan Andreitch, the door of my house is closed 
to you henceforth.” 

She uttered these words with great solemnity and 
was herself overwhelmed by her solemn tone. Her 
face began quivering again; it assumed a soft 
almond-oily expression. She held out both hands 
to Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who was overcome with 
alarm and confusion, and said in an imploring voice: 

‘“My dear, allow me if only for a moment to be 
a mother or an elder sister to you! I will be as 
frank with you as a mother.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna felt in her bosom 
warmth, gladness, and pity for herself, as though 
her own mother had really risen up and were stand- 
ing before her. She impulsively embraced Marya 
Konstantinovna and pressed her face to her 
shoulder. Both of them shed tears. They sat 
down on the sofa and for a few minutes sobbed 
without looking at one another or being able to 
utter a word. 

“My dear child,” began Marya Konstantinovna, 


The Duel 83 


**T will tell you some harsh truths, without sparing 
you.” 

‘“ For God’s sake, for God’s sake, do!” 

“Trust me, my dear. You remember of all the 
ladies here, I was the only one to receive you. You 
horrified me from the very first day, but I had not 
the heart to treat you with disdain like all the rest. 
I grieved over dear, good Ivan Andreitch as though 
he were my son —a young man in a strange place, 
inexperienced, weak, with no mother; and I was 
worried, dreadfully worried. . . . My husband was 
opposed to our making his acquaintance, but I talked 
him over . . . persuaded him. . . . We began re- 
ceiving Ivan Andreitch, and with him, of course, 
you. If we had not, he would have been insulted. 
I have a daughter, a son. . . . You understand the 
tender mind, the pure heart of childhood... 
‘whoso offendeth one of these little ones... . I 
received you into my house and trembled for my 
children. Oh, when you become a mother, you will 
understand my fears. And every one was surprised 
at my receiving you, excuse my saying so, as a re- 
spectable woman, and hinted to me... . well, of 
course, slanders, suppositions. . . . At the bottom 
of my heart I blamed you, but you were unhappy, 
flighty, to be pitied, and my heart was wrung with 
pity for you.” 

“But why, why?” asked Nadyezhda Fyodo- 
rovna, trembling all over. ‘“‘ What harm have | 
done any one?” 


84 The Tales of Chekhov 


-.“ You are a terrible sinner. You broke the vow 
you made your husband at the altar. You seduced 
a fine young man, who perhaps had he not met you 
might have taken a lawful partner for life from a 
good family in his own circle, and would have been 
like every one else now. You have ruined his youth. 
Don’t speak, don’t speak, my dear! I never believe 
that man is to blame for our sins. It is always the 
woman’s fault. Men are frivolous in domestic life; 
they are guided by their minds, and not by their 
hearts. ‘[here’s a great deal they don’t understand; 
woman understands it all. Everything depends on 
her. To her much is given and from her much will 
be required. Oh, my dear, if she had been more 
foolish or weaker than man on that side, God would 
not have entrusted her with the education of boys 
and girls. And then, my dear, you entered on the 
path of vice, forgetting all modesty; any other 
woman in your place would have hidden herself 
from people, would have sat shut up at home, and 
would only have been seen in the temple of God, 
pale, dressed all in black and weeping, and every 
one would have said in genuine compassion: ‘O 
Lord, this erring angel is coming back again to 
Thee. . . .” But you, my dear, have forgotten all 
discretion; have lived openly, extravagantly; have 
seemed to be proud of your sin; you have been gay 
and laughing, and IJ, looking at you, shuddered with 
horror, and have been afraid that thunder from 
Heaven would strike our house while you were 


The Duel 85 


sitting with us. My dear, don’t speak, don’t speak,” 
cried Marya Konstantinovna, observing that Na- 
dyezhda Fyodorovna wanted to speak. ‘ Trust me, 
I will not deceive you, I will not hide one truth from 
the eyes of your soul. Listen to me, my dear... . 
God marks great sinners, and you have been marked 
out: only think — your costumes have always been 
appalling.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who had always had the 
highest opinion of her costumes, left off crying and 
looked at her with surprise. 

“Yes, appalling,” Marya Konstantinovna went 
on. ‘“ Any one could judge of your behaviour from 
the elaboration and gaudiness of your attire. Peo- 
ple laughed and shrugged their shoulders as they 
looked at you, and I grieved, I grieved. . . . And 
forgive me, my dear; you are not nice in your 
person! When we met in the bathing-place, you 
made me tremble. Your outer clothing was decent 
enough, but your petticoat, your chemise. . . . My 
dear, I blushed! Poor Ivan Andreitch! No one 
ever ties his cravat properly, and from his linen and 
his boots, poor fellow! one can see he has no one 
at home to look after him. And he is always 
hungry, my darling, and of course, if there is no one 
at home to think of the samovar and the coffee, one 
is forced to spend half one’s salary at the pavilion. 
And it’s simply awful, awful in your home! No 
one else in the town has flies, but there’s no getting 
rid of them in your rooms: all the plates and dishes 


86 The Tales of Chekhov 


are black with them. If you look at the windows 
and the chairs, there’s nothing but dust, dead flies, 
and glasses. . . . What do you want glasses stand- 
ing about for? And, my dear, the table’s not 
cleared till this time in the day. And one’s ashamed 
to go into your bedroom: underclothes flung about 
everywhere, india-rubber tubes hanging on the walls, 
pails and basins standing about... . My dear! A 
husband ought to know nothing, and his wife ought 
to be as neat as a little angel in his presence. I 
wake up every morning before it is light, and wash 
my face with cold water that my Nikodim Alex- 
andritch may not see me looking drowsy.”’ 

‘“That’s all nonsense,” Nadyezhda Fyodorovna 
sobbed. “If only I were happy, but I am so 
unhappy!” 

‘Yes, yes; you are very unhappy!” Marya 
Konstantinovna sighed, hardly able to restrain her- 
self from weeping. ‘‘ And there’s terrible grief in 
store for you in the future! A solitary old age, ill- 
health; and then you will have to answer at the 
dread judgment seat. . . . It’s awful, awful. Now 
fate itself holds out to you a helping hand, and you 
madly thrust it from you. Be married, make haste 
and be married!” 

‘Yes, we must, we must,”’ said Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna; “ but it’s impossible! ”’ 

(39 Why? ” 

““Tt’s impossible. Oh, if only you knew!” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna had an impulse to tell 


The Duel 87 


her about Kirilin, and how the evening before she 
had met handsome young Atchmianoy at the har- 
bour, and how the mad, ridiculous idea had occurred 
to her of cancelling her debt for three hundred; it 
had amused her very much, and she returned home 
late in the evening feeling that she had sold herself 
and was irrevocably lost. She did not know her- 
self how it had happened. And she longed to swear 
to Marya Konstantinovna that she would certainly 
pay that debt, but sobs and shame prevented her 
from speaking. 

““T am going away,” she said. ‘‘ Ivan Andreitch 
may stay, but I am going.” 

“Where?” 

“To Russia.” 

“But how will you live there? Why, you have 
nothing.”’ 

““T will do translation, or . . . or I will open a 
ibrary.)/).42’ 

“Don’t let your fancy run away with you, my 
dear. You must have money for a library. Well, 
I will leave you now, and you calm yourself and 
think things over, and to-morrow come and see me, 
bright and happy. That will be enchanting! Well, 
good-bye, my angel. Let me kiss you.” 

Marya Konstantinovna kissed Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna on the forehead, made the sign of the cross 
over her, and softly withdrew. It was getting dark, 
and Olga lighted up in the kitchen. Still crying, 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna went into the bedroom and 


88 The Tales of Chekhov 


lay down on the bed. She began to be very feverish. 
She undressed without getting up, crumpled up her 
clothes at her feet, and curled herself up under the 
bedclothes. She was thirsty, and there was no one 
to give her something to drink. 

‘““T'll pay it back!” she said to herself, and it 
seemed to her in delirium that she was sitting beside 
some sick woman, and recognised her as herself. 
‘Tl pay it back. It would be stupid to imagine 
that it was for money I. . . I will go away and 
send him the money from Petersburg. At first a 
hundred . . . then another hundred . . . and then 
the third*hundreds). <” 

It was late at night when Laevsky came in. 

‘At first a hundred .. .” Nadyezhda Fyodo- 
rovna said to him, ‘“‘ then another hundred . . .” 

“You ought to take some quinine,” he said, and 
thought, ‘‘ To-morrow is Wednesday; the steamer 
goes and I am not going in it. So I shall have to 
go on living here till Saturday.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna knelt up in bed. 

““T didn’t say anything just now, did I?” 
she asked, smiling and screwing up her eyes at the 
light. 

‘“No, nothing. We shall have to send for the 
doctor to-morrow morning. Go to sleep.” 

He took his pillow and went to the door. Ever 
since he had finally made up his mind to go away 
and leave Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, she had begun 
to raise in him pity and a sense of guilt; he felt a 


The Duel 89 


little ashamed in her presence, as though in the 
presence of a sick or old horse whom one has de- 
cided to kill. He stopped in the doorway and 
looked round at her. 

‘“T was out of humour at the picnic and said 
something rude to you. Forgive me, for God’s 
sake!” 

Saying this, he went off to his study, lay down, 
and for a long while could not get to sleep. 

Next morning when Samoylenko, attired, as it 
was a holiday, in full-dress uniform with epaulettes 
on his shoulders and decorations on his breast, came 
out of the bedroom after feeling Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna’s pulse and looking at her tongue, Laevsky, 
who was standing in the doorway, asked him 
anxiously: “ Well? Well?” 

There was an expression of terror, of extreme 
uneasiness, and of hope on his face. 

“Don’t worry yourself; there’s nothing danger- 
ous,” said Samoylenko; “ it’s the usual fever.”’ 

‘“T don’t mean that.” Laevsky frowned im- 
patiently. ‘‘ Have you got the money?” 

‘“‘ My dear soul, forgive me,” he whispered, look- 
ing round at the door and overcome with confu- 
sion. 

‘For God’s sake, forgive me! No one has any- 
thing to spare, and I’ve only been able to collect by 
five- and by ten-rouble notes. . . . Only a hundred 
and ten in all. To-day I’ll speak to some one else. 
Have patience.” 


go The Tales of Chekhov 


“But Saturday is the latest date,” whispered 
Laevsky, trembling with impatience. ‘‘ By all that’s 
sacred, get it by Saturday! If I don’t get away by 
Saturday, nothing’s any use, nothing! I can’t un- 
derstand how a doctor can be without money! ”’ 

‘“Lord have mercy on us!’ Samoylenko whis- 
pered rapidly and intensely, and there was positively 
a breaking note in his throat. ‘“‘ I’ve been stripped 
of everything; I am owed seven thousand, and I’m 
in debt all round. Is it my fault?” 

“Then you'll get it by Saturday? Yes?” 

mad teys? 

“I implore you, my dear fellow! So that the 
money may be in my hands by Friday morning! ” 

Samoylenko sat down and prescribed solution of 
quinine and kalii bromati and tincture of rhubarb, 
tincture gentiane, aque fceniculi — all in one mix- 
ture, added some pink syrup to sweeten it, and went 
away. 


XI 


“You look as though you were coming to arrest 
me,’ said Von Koren, seeing Samoylenko coming 
in, in his full-dress uniform. 

“I was passing by and thought: ‘ Suppose I go 
in and pay my respects to zoology,’” said Samoy- 
lenko, sitting down at the big table, knocked together 
by the zoologist himself out of plain boards. 
‘‘ Good-morning, holy father,” he said to the deacon, 
who was sitting in the window, copying something. 


The Duel gl 


*‘ T’ll stay a minute and then run home to see about 
dinner. It’s time. ... I’m not hindering you?” 

‘“ Not in the least,” answered the zoologist, laying 
out over the table slips of paper covered with small 
writing. ‘‘ We are busy copying.” 

‘At? eo. ). (Oh, “my goodness, «my  good- 
ness! ...’’ sighed Samoylenko. He cautiously 
took up from the table a dusty book on which there 
was lying a dead dried spider, and said: ‘ Only 
fancy, though; some little green beetle is going about 
its business, when suddenly a monster like this 
swoops down upon it. I can fancy its terror.” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

‘Is poison given it to protect it from its 
enemies?” 

‘Yes, to protect it and enable it to attack.” 

“To be sure, to be sure. . . . And everything 
in nature, my dear fellows, is consistent and can 
be explained,” sighed Samoylenko; “ only I tell you 
what I don’t understand. You’re a man of very 
great intellect, so explain it to me, please. There 
are, you know, little beasts no bigger than rats, 
rather handsome to look at, but nasty and immoral 
in the extreme, let me tell you. Suppose such a little 
beast is running in the woods. He sees a bird; 
he catches it and devours it. He goes on and sees 
in the grass a nest of eggs; he does not want to eat 
them — he is not hungry, but yet he tastes one egg 
and scatters the others out of the nest with his paw. 
Then he meets a frog and begins to play with it; 


g2 The Tales of Chekhov 


when he has tormented the frog he goes on licking 
himself and meets a beetle; he crushes the beetle 
with his paw... and so he spoils and destroys 
everything on his way. . . . He creeps into other 
beasts’ holes, tears up the anthills, cracks the snail’s 
shell. If he meets a rat, he fights with it; if he 
meets a snake or a mouse, he must strangle it; and 
so the whole day long. Come, tell me: what is the 
use of a beast like that? Why was he created?” 

‘“T don’t know what animal you are talking of,” 
said Von Koren; “ most likely one of the insectivora. 
Well, he got hold of the bird because it was in- 
cautious; he broke the nest of eggs because the bird 
was not skilful, had made the nest badly and did 
not know how to conceal it. The frog probably had 
some defect in its colouring or he would not have 
seen it, and so on. Your little beast only destroys 
the weak, the unskilful, the careless — in fact, those 
who have defects which nature does not think fit 
to hand on to posterity. Only the cleverer, the 
stronger, the more careful and developed survive; 
and so your little beast, without suspecting it, is serv- 
ing the great ends of perfecting creation.” 

“ Yes, yes, yes. . . . By the way, brother,” said 
Samoylenko carelessly, ‘‘lend me a _ hundred 
roubles.” 

“Very good. There are some very interesting 
types among the insectivorous mammals. For in- 
stance, the mole is said.to be useful because he de- 
vours noxious insects. There is a story that some 


The Duel 93 


German sent William I. a fur coat made of mole- 
skins, and the Emperor ordered him to be reproved 
for having destroyed so great a number of useful 
animals. And yet the mole is not a bit less cruel 
than your little beast, and is very mischievous be- 
sides, as he spoils meadows terribly.” 

Von Koren opened a box and took out a hundred- 
rouble note. 

“The mole has a powerful thorax, just like the 
bat,”’ he went on, shutting the box; ‘‘ the bones and 
muscles are tremendously developed, the mouth is 
extraordinarily powerfully furnished. If it had the 
proportions of an elephant, it would be an all- 
destructive, invincible animal. It is interesting when 
two moles meet underground; they begin at once 
as though by agreement digging a little platform; 
they need the platform in order to have a battle more 
conveniently. When they have made it they enter 
upon a ferocious struggle and fight till the weaker 
one falls. ‘Take the hundred roubles,” said Von 
Koren, dropping his voice, ‘“ but only on condition 
that you’re not borrowing it for Laevsky.” 

“* And if it were for Laevsky,” cried Samoylenko, 
flaring up, ‘“‘ what is that to you?” 

‘“‘T can’t give it to you for Laevsky. I know you 
like lending people money. You would give it to 
Kerim, the brigand, if he were to ask you; but, ex- 
cuse me, I can’t assist you in that direction.” 

“Yes, it is for Laevsky I am asking it,” said 
Samoylenko, standing up and waving his right arm. 


04 The Tales of Chekhov 


“Yes! For Laevsky! And no one, fiend or devil, 
has a right to dictate to me how to dispose of my 
own money. It doesn’t suit you to lend it me? 
No?” 

The deacon began laughing. 

“Don’t get excited, but be reasonable,” said the 
zoologist. ‘‘ To shower benefits on Mr. Laevsky 
is, to my thinking, as senseless as to water weeds or 
to feed locusts.” 

‘To my thinking, it is our duty to help our neigh- 
bours!” cried Samoylenko. 

“In that case, help that hungry Turk who is lying 
under the fence! He is a workman and more useful 
and indispensable than your Laevsky. Give him 
that hundred-rouble note! Or subscribe a hundred 
roubles to my expedition!” 

‘Will you give me the money or not? I ask 
you!” 

“Tell me openly: what does he want money 
for?” 

‘“Tt’s not a secret; he wants to go to Petersburg 
on Saturday.” 

“So that. 1s) it!” Von Koren drawled’ - out. 
“Aha! ... We understand. “Andis she ‘going 
with him, or how is it to be? ”’ 

‘ She’s staying here for the time. He'll arrange 
his affairs in Petersburg and send her the money, 
and then she’ll go.” 

‘That’s smart!” said the zoologist, and he gave 
a short tenor laugh. ‘Smart, well planned.” 


The Duel 95 


He went rapidly up to Samoylenko, and standing 
face to face with him, and looking him in the eyes, 
asked: ‘‘ Tell me now honestly: is he tired of her? 
Yes? tell me: is he tired of her? Yes?” 

“Yes,” Samoylenko articulated, beginning to 
perspire. 

“How repulsive it is!’’ said Von Koren, and 
from his face it could be seen that he felt repulsion. 
“One of two things, Alexandr Daviditch: either you 
are in the plot with him, or, excuse my saying so, 
you are a simpleton. Surely you must see that he 
is taking you in like a child in the most shameless 
way? Why, it’s as clear as day that he wants to 
get rid of her and abandon her here. She’ll be left 
a burden on you. It is as clear as day that you will 
have to send her to Petersburg at your expense. 
Surely your fine friend can’t have so blinded you by 
his dazzling qualities that you can’t see the simplest 
thing?” 

“That’s all supposition,’ said Samoylenko, sit- 
ting down. 

‘“Supposition? But why is he going alone in- 
stead of taking her with him? And ask him why 
he doesn’t send her off first. The sly beast!” 

Overcome with sudden doubts and _ suspicions 
about his friend, Samoylenko weakened and took a 
humbler tone. 

‘‘ But it’s impossible,” he said, recalling the night 
Laevsky had spent at his house. ‘“‘ He is so un- 
happy!” 


96 The Tales of Chekhov 


“What of that? Thieves and incendiaries are 
unhappy too!” 

‘““ Even supposing you are right . . .”’ said Samoy- 
lenko, hesitating. ‘‘ Let us admit it. . . . Still, he’s 
a young man in a strange place ... a student. 
We have been students, too, and there is no one but 
us to come to his assistance.” 

‘To help him to do abominable things, because 
he and you at different times have been at universi- 
ties, and neither of you did anything there! What 
nonsense! ”’ 

‘Stop; let us talk it over coolly. I imagine it 
will be possible to make some arrangement. .. .” 
Samoylenko reflected, twiddling his fingers. ‘I'll 
give him the money, you see, but make him prom- 
ise on his honour that within a week he’ll send 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna the money for the jour- 
ney.” 

“And he’ll give you his word of honour — in 
fact, he’ll shed tears and believe in it himself; but 
what’s his word of honour worth? He won't keep 
it, and when in a year or two you meet him on the 
Nevsky Prospect with a new mistress on his arm, 
he’ll excuse himself on the ground that he has been 
crippled by civilisation, and that he is made after the 
pattern of Rudin. Drop him, for God’s sake! 
Keep away from the filth; don’t stir it up with both 
hands!” 

Samoylenko thought for a minute and _ said 
resolutely: 


The Duel 97 


“ But I shall give him the money all the same. 
As you please. I can’t bring myself to refuse a 
man simply on an assumption.” 

‘Very fine, too. You can kiss him if you like.” 

‘“‘Give me the hundred roubles, then,’ Samoy- 
lenko asked timidly. 

‘“*T won't.” 

A silence followed. Samoylenko was quite 
crushed; his face wore a guilty, abashed, and in- 
gratiating expression, and it was strange to see this 
pitiful, childish, shamefaced countenance on a huge 
man wearing epaulettes and orders of merit. 

“The bishop here goes the round of his diocese 
on horseback instead of in a carriage,” said the 
deacon, laying down his pen. “It’s extremely 
touching to see him sit on his horse. His simplicity 
and humility are full of Biblical grandeur.” 

‘Ts he a good man?”’ asked Von Koren, who was 
glad to change the conversation. 

“Of course! If he hadn’t been a good man, do 
you suppose he would have been consecrated a 
bishop?” 

‘‘ Among the bishops are to be found good and 
gifted men,” said Von Koren. ‘‘ The only draw- 
back is that some of them have the weakness to 
imagine themselves statesmen. One busies himself 
with Russification, another criticises the sciences. 
That’s not their business. They had much better 
look into their consistory a little.” 

‘“‘ A layman cannot judge of bishops.” 


®) 


98 The Tales of Chekhov 


“Why so, deacon? A bishop is a man just the 
same as you or I.” 

‘“The same, but not the same.” The deacon 
was offended and took up his pen. “If you had 
been the same, the Divine Grace would have rested 
upon you, and you would have been bishop your- 
self; and since you are not bishop, it follows you 
are not the same.” 

‘Don’t talk nonsense, deacon,” said Samoylenko 
dejectedly. ‘“* Listen to what I suggest,’ he said, 
turning to Von Koren. “Don’t give me _ that 
hundred roubles. You'll be having your dinners 
with me for three months before the winter, so let 
me have the money beforehand for three months.” 

‘© T won't.” 

Samoylenko blinked and turned crimson; he 
mechanically drew towards him the book with the 
spider on it and looked at it, then he got up and 
took his hat. 

Von Koren felt sorry for him. 

‘What it is to have to live and do with people 
like this,” said the zoologist, and he kicked a paper 
into the corner with indignation. ‘‘ You must 
understand that this is not kindness, it is not love, 
but cowardice, slackness, poison! What’s gained 
by reason is lost by your flabby good-for-nothing 
hearts! When I was ill with typhoid as a school- 
boy, my aunt in her sympathy gave me pickled mush- 
rooms to eat, and I very nearly died. You, and my 
aunt too, must understand that love for man is not 


b] 


The Duel 99 


to be found in the heart or the stomach or the 
bowels, but here! ”’ 

Von Koren slapped himself on the forehead. 

“ Take it,” he said, and thrust a hundred-rouble 
note into his hand. 

“You’ve no need to be angry, Kolya,” said 
Samoylenko mildly, folding up the note. ‘‘I quite 
understand you, but . . . you must put yourself in 
my place.” 

“You are an old woman, that’s what you 
AGE. 

The deacon burst out laughing. 

“Hear my last request, Alexandr Daviditch,” 
said Von Koren hotly. ‘‘ When you give that 
scoundrel the money, make it a condition that he 
takes his lady with him, or sends her on ahead, and 
don’t give it him without. ‘There’s no need to stand 
on ceremony with him. ‘Tell him so, or, if you 
don’t, I give you my word I'll go to his office and 
kick him downstairs, and I’ll break off all acquaint- 
ance with you. So you’d better know it.” 

‘Well! To go with her or send her on before- 
hand will be more convenient for him,” said Samoy- 
lenko. ‘“‘ He'll be delighted indeed. Well, good- 
bye.” 

He said good-bye affectionately and went out, but 
before shutting the door after him, he looked round 
at Von Koren and, with a ferocious face, said: 

“Tt’s the Germans who have ruined you, brother! 


Yes! The Germans! ” 


100 The Tales of Chekhov 


XII 


Next day, Thursday, Marya Konstantinovna was 
celebrating the birthday of her Kostya. All were 
invited to come at midday and eat pies, and in the 
evening to drink chocolate. When Laevsky and 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna arrived in the evening, the 
zoologist, who was already sitting in the drawing- 
room, drinking chocolate, asked Samoylenko: 

“Have you talked to him?” 

“Not yet.) 

““Mind now, don’t stand on ceremony. I can’t 
understand the insolence of these people! Why, 
they know perfectly well the view taken by this fam- 
ily of their cohabitation, and yet they force them- 
selves in here.” 

“If one is to pay attention to every prejudice,” 
said Samoylenko, “ one could go nowhere.”’ 

‘“Do you mean to say that the repugnance felt 
by the masses for illicit love and moral laxity is a 
prejudice?” 

“OF “course ‘it® is: “Tt's’prejudice and *hate: 
When the soldiers see a girl of light behaviour, they 
laugh and whistle; but just ask them what they are 
themselves.” . 

“It’s not for nothing they whistle. The fact that 
girls strangle their illegitimate children and go to 
prison for it, and that Anna Karenin flung herself 
under the train, and that in the villages they smear 
the gates with tar, and that you and I, without know- 


The Duel 101 


ing why, are pleased by Katya’s purity, and that 
every one of us feels a vague craving for pure love, 
though he knows there is no such love — is all that 
prejudice? ‘That is the one thing, brother, which 
has survived intact from natural selection, and, if 
it were not for that obscure force regulating the rela- 
tions of the sexes, the Laevskys would have it all 
their own way, and mankind would degenerate in 
two years.” 

Laevsky came into the drawing-room, greeted 
every one, and shaking hands with Von Koren, 
smiled ingratiatingly. He waited for a favourable 
moment and said to Samoylenko: 

“Excuse me, Alexandr Daviditch, I must say two 
words to you.” 

Samoylenko got up, put his arm round Laevsky’s 
waist, and both of them went into Nikodim Alex- 
andritch’s study. 

“To-morrow’s Friday,” said Laevsky, biting his 
nails. ‘‘ Have you got what you promised?” 

‘“Tve only got two hundred. I'll get the rest 
to-day or to-morrow. Don’t worry yourself.” 

“Thank God...” sighed Laevsky, and his 
hands began trembling with joy. ‘‘ You are saving 
me, Alexandr Daviditch, and I swear to you by God, 
by my happiness and anything you like, I’ll send you 
the money as soon as I arrive. And I'll send you 
my old debt too.” 

‘‘Look here, Vanya ...” said Samoylenko, 
turning crimson and taking him by the button. 


102 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘You must forgive my meddling in your private 
affairs, but . . . why shouldn’t you take Nadyezhda 
Fyodoroyna with you?” 

“You queer fellow. How is that possible? 
One of us must stay, or our creditors will raise an 
outcry. You see, I owe seven hundred or more to 
the shops. Only wait, and I will send them the 
money. I'll stop their mouths, and then she can 
come away.” 

‘“T see. . . . But why shouldn’t you send her on 
first?” 

“My goodness, as though that were possible! ” 
Laevsky was horrified. ‘‘ Why, she’s a woman; 
what would she do there alone? What does she 
know about it? ‘That would only be a loss of time 
and a useless waste of money.” 

“That’s reasonable . . .” thought Samoylenko, 
but remembering his conversation with Von Koren, 
he looked down and said sullenly: “I can’t agree 
with you. Either go with her or send her first; 
otherwise . . . otherwise I won’t give you the 
money. ‘Those are my last words... .” 

He staggered back, lurched backwards against 
the door, and went into the drawing-room, crimson, 
and overcome with confusion. 

‘Friday ... Friday,” thought Laevsky, going 
back into the drawing-room. ‘Friday... .” 

He was handed a cup of chocolate; he burnt his 
lips and tongue with the scalding chocolate and 
thought: “Fiiday'). 2° Fridayi% (07% 


The Duel 103 


For some reason he could not get the word 
“Friday ” out of his head; he could think of nothing 
but Friday, and the only thing that was clear to him, 
not in his brain but somewhere in his heart, was that 
he would not get off on Saturday. Before him stood 
Nikodim Alexandritch, very neat, with his hair 
combed over his temples, saying: 

‘‘ Please take something to eat... . 

Marya Konstantinovna showed the _ visitors 
Katya’s school report and said, drawling: 

‘It’s very, very difficult to do well at school 
nowadays! So much is expected .. .” 

‘“ Mamma!” groaned Katya, not knowing where 
to hide her confusion at the praises of the company. 

Laevsky, too, looked at the report and praised it. 
Scripture, Russian language, conduct, fives and 
fours, danced before his eyes, and all this, mixed 
with the haunting refrain of “ Friday,” with the 
carefully combed locks of Nikodim Alexandritch 
and the red cheeks of Katya, produced on him a 
sensation of such immense overwhelming boredom 
that he almost shrieked with despair and asked him- 
self: ‘‘Is it possible, is it possible I shall not get 
away?” 

They put two card tables side by side and sat 
down to play post. Laevsky sat down too. 

 Piriday cosnekriday «).(.” he« kept,. thinking; 
as he smiled and took a pencil out of his pocket. 
peretdays .s).” 

Fle manted to think over his position, and was 


” 


104 The Tales of Chekhov 


afraid to think. It was terrible to him to realise 
that the doctor had detected him in the deception 
which he had so long and carefully concealed from 
himself. Every time he thought of his future he 
would not let his thoughts have full rein. He would 
get into the train and set off, and thereby the prob- 
lem of his life would be solved, and he did not let 
his thoughts go farther. Like a far-away dim light 
in the fields, the thought sometimes flickered in his 
mind that in one of the side-streets of Petersburg, 
in the remote future, he would have to have recourse 
to a tiny lie in order to get rid of Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna and pay his debts; he would tell a lie only 
once, and then a completely new life would begin. 
And that was right: at the price of a small lie he 
would win so much truth. 

Now when by his blunt refusal the doctor had 
crudely hinted at his deception, he began to under- 
stand that he would need deception not only in the 
remote future, but to-day, and to-morrow, and in~ 
a month’s time, and perhaps up to the very end of 
his life. In fact, in order to get away he would 
have to lie to Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, to his cred- 
itors, and to his superiors in the Service; then, in 
order to get money in Petersburg, he would have to 
lie to his mother, to tell her that he had already 
broken with Nadyezhda Fyodorovna; and _ his 
mother would not give him more than five hundred 
roubles, so he had already deceived the doctor, as 
he would not be in a position to pay him back the 


The Duel 105 


money within a short time. Afterwards, when 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna came to Petersburg, he 
would have to resort to a regular series of decep- 
tions, little and big, in order to get free of her; and 
again there would be tears, boredom, a disgusting 
existence, remorse, and so there would be no new 
life. Deception and nothing more. A_ whole 
mountain of lies rose before Laevsky’s imagination. 
To leap over it at one bound and not to do his lying 
piecemeal, he would have to bring himself to stern, 
uncompromising action; for instance, to getting up 
without saying a word, putting on his hat, and at 
once setting off without money and without explana- 
tion. But Laevsky felt that was impossible for 
him. 

Hriday,!” Priday 2°47" he’*'thought!)’ © Fri- 
day tioety? 

They wrote little notes, folded them in two, and 
_ put them in Nikodim Alexandritch’s old top-hat. 
- When there were a sufficient heap of notes, 
Kostya, who acted the part of postman, walked 
round the table and delivered them. The deacon, 
Katya, and Kostya, who received amusing notes and 
tried to write as funnily as they could, were highly 
delighted. 

‘“We must have a little talk,” Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna read in a little note; she glanced at Marya 
Konstantinovna, who gave her an almond-oily smile 
and nodded. 

“Talk of what?” thought Nadyezhda Fyo- 


106 The Tales of Chekhov 


dorovna. ‘‘If one can’t tell the whole, it’s no use 
talking.” 

Before going out for the evening she had tied 
Laevsky’s cravat for him, and that simple action 
filled her soul with tenderness and sorrow. ‘The 
anxiety in his face, his absent-minded looks, his 
pallor, and the incomprehensible change that had 
taken place in him of late, and the fact that she had 
a terrible revolting secret from him, and the fact 
that her hands trembled when she tied his cravat — 
all this seemed to tell her that they had not long 
left to be together. She looked at him as though 
he were an ikon, with terror and penitence, and 
thought: ‘“ Forgive, forgive.” 

Opposite her was sitting Atchmianov, and he 
never took his black, love-sick eyes off her. She was 
stirred by passion; she was ashamed of herself, and 
afraid that even her misery and sorrow would not 
prevent her from yielding to impure desire to-mor- 
row, if not to-day —and that, like a drunkard, she 
would not have the strength to stop herself. 

She made up her mind to go away that she might 
not continue this life, shameful for herself, and 
humiliating for Laevsky. She would beseech him 
with tears to let her go; and if he opposed her, she 
would go away secretly. She would not tell him 
what had happened; let him keep a pure memory 
of her. 

‘*T love you, I love you, I love you,’ 
It was from Atchmianoy. 


’ she read. 


The Duel 107 


She would live in some far remote place, would 
work and send Laevsky, “‘ anonymously,” money, 
embroidered shirts, and tobacco, and would return 
to him only in old age or if he were dangerously ill 
and needed a nurse. When in his old age he learned 
what were her reasons for leaving him and refusing 
to be his wife, he would appreciate her sacrifice and 
forgive. 

‘““You’ve got a long nose.” That must be from 
the deacon or Kostya. 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna imagined how, parting 
from Laevsky, she would embrace him warmly, 
would kiss his hand, and would swear to love him 
all her life, all her life, and then, living in obscurity 
among strangers, she would every day think that 
somewhere she had a friend, some one she loved — 
a pure, noble, lofty man who kept a pure memory 
of her. 

‘“‘Tf you don’t give me an interview to-day, I shall 
take measures, I assure you on my word of honour. 
You can’t treat decent people like this; you must 
understand that.’ That was from Kirilin. 


XIII 


Laevsky received two notes; he opened one and 
read: ‘‘ Don’t go away, my darling.” 

“Who could have written that?”’ he thought. 
‘“ Not Samoylenko, of course. And not the deacon, 


108 The Tales of Chekhov 


for he doesn’t know I want to go away. Von 
Koren, perhaps?” 

The zoologist bent over the table and drew a 
pyramid. Laevsky fancied that his eyes were 
smiling. 

““ Most likely Samoylenko . . . has been gossip- 
ing,” thought Laevsky. 

In the other note, in the same disguised angular 
handwriting with long tails to the letters, was writ- 
ten: ‘‘Somebody won’t go away on Saturday.” 

‘“ A stupid gibe,” thought Laevsky. “ Friday, 
Bridayye: tia? 

Something rose in his throat. He touched his 
collar and coughed, but instead of a cough a laugh 
broke from his throat. 

‘“ Ha-ha-ha!”’ he laughed. ‘‘ Ha-ha-ha! What 
am I laughing at? Ha-ha-ha!” 

He tried to restrain himself, covered his mouth 
with his hand, but the laugh choked his chest and 
throat, and his hand could not cover his mouth. 

‘How stupid it is!’’ he thought, rolling with 
laughter. ‘“‘ Have I gone out of my mind?”’ 

The laugh grew shriller and shriller, and became 
something like the bark of a lap-dog. Laevsky tried 
to get up from the table, but his legs would not obey 
him and his right hand was strangely, without his 
volition, dancing on the table, convulsively clutching 
and crumpling up the bits of paper. He saw looks 
of wonder, Samoylenko’s grave, frightened face, and 


The Duel 109 


the eyes of the zoologist full of cold irony and dis- 
gust, and realised that he was in hysterics. 

‘“How hideous, how shameful!” he thought, 
feeling the warmth of tears on his face. “. . . Oh, 
oh, what a disgrace! It has never happened to 
mien 
They took him under his arms, and supporting 
his head from behind, led him away; a glass 
gleamed before his eyes and knocked against his 
teeth, and the water was spilt on his breast; he was 
in a little room, with two beds in the middle, side by 
side, covered by two snow-white quilts. He 
dropped on one of the beds and sobbed. 

‘It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” Samoylenko kept 
saying; ‘‘it does happen . . . it does happen. . . .” 

Chill with horror, trembling all over and dread- 
ing something awful, Nadyezhda Fyodorovna stood 
by the bedside and kept asking: 

“What is it? What is it? For God’s sake, tell 
me.” 

“Can Kirilin have written him something?” she 
thought. 

‘It’s nothing,” said Laevsky, laughing and cry- 
ing; “‘ go away, darling.” 

His face expressed neither hatred nor repulsion: 
so he knew nothing; Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was 
somewhat reassured, and she went into the draw- 
ing-room. 

‘Don’t agitate yourself, my dear!’ said Marya 


110 The Tales of Chekhov 


Konstantinoyna, sitting down beside her and taking 
her hand. “It will pass. Men are just as weak as 
we poor sinners. You are both going through a 
crisis. . . . One can so well understand it! Well, 
my dear, I am waiting for an answer. Let us have 
a little talk.” 

‘No, we are not going to talk,”’ said Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna, listening to Laevsky’s sobs. “I feel 
depressed. . . . You must allow me to go home.” 

‘““What do you mean, what do you mean, my 
dear?”’ cried Marya Konstantinovna in alarm. 
“Do you think I could let you go without supper? 
We will have something to eat, and then you may go 
with my blessing.” 

“I feel miserable . . .” whispered Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna, and she caught at the arm of the chair 
with both hands to avoid falling. 

‘“ He’s got a touch of hysterics,” said Von Koren 
gaily, coming into the drawing-room, but seeing 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, he was taken aback and 
retreated. 

When the attack was over, Laevsky sat on the 
strange bed and thought. 

“Disgraceful! I’ve been howling like some 
wretched girl! I must have been absurd and dis- 
gusting. I will go away by the back stairs... . 
But that would seem as though I took my hysterics 
too seriously. I ought to take it as a joke. . . .” 

He looked in the looking-glass, sat there for some 
time, and went back into the drawing-room. 


’ 


The Duel Lil 


** Here I am,” he said, smiling; he felt agonisingly 
ashamed, and he felt others were ashamed in his 
presence. ‘‘ Fancy such a thing happening,” he said, 
sitting down. ‘I was sitting here, and all of a 
sudden, do you know, I felt a terrible piercing pain 
in my side . . . unendurable, my nerves could not 
stand it, and. . . and it led to this silly perform- 
ance. This is the age of nerves; there is no help 
foreit.” 

At supper he drank some wine, and, from time 
to time, with an abrupt sigh rubbed his side as 
though to suggest that he still felt the pain. And 
no one, except Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, believed 
him, and he saw that. 

After nine o’clock they went for a walk on the 
boulevard. Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, afraid that 
Kirilin would speak to her, did her best to keep all 
the time beside Marya Konstantinovna and the chil- 
dren. She felt weak with fear and misery, and felt 
she was going to be feverish; she was exhausted 
and her legs would hardly move, but she did not go 
home, because she felt sure that she would be fol- 
lowed by Kirilin or Atchmianoy or both at once. 
Kirilin walked behind her with Nikodim Alexan- 
dritch, and kept humming in an undertone: 

‘“T don’t al-low people to play with me! I don’t 
al-low it.” 

From the boulevard they went back to the pavilion 
and walked along the beach, and looked for a long 
time at the phosphorescence on the water. Von 


112 The Tales of Chekhov 


Koren began telling them why it looked phos- 
phorescent. 


XIV 


““Tt’s time I went to my vint. . . . They will be 
waiting for me,” said Laevsky. ‘‘ Good-bye, my 
friends.” 

“Tll come with you; wait a minute,” said 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and she took his arm. 

They said good-bye to the company and went 
away. Kirilin took leave too, and saying that he 
was going the same way, went along beside them. 

“What will be, will be,” thought Nadyezhda 
Fyodorovna. © “So be vit.p2:) 2” 

And it seemed to her that all the evil memories 
in her head had taken shape and were walking beside 
her in the darkness, breathing heavily, while she, 
like a fly that had fallen into the inkpot, was crawling 
painfully along the pavement and smirching Laev- 
sky’s side and arm with blackness. 

If Kirilin should do anything horrid, she thought, 
not he but she would be to blame for it. There was 
a time when no man would have talked to her as 
Kirilin had done, and she had torn up her security 
like a thread and destroyed it irrevocably — who 
was to blame for it? Intoxicated by her passions 
she had smiled at a complete stranger, probably just 
because he was tall and a fine figure. After two 
meetings she was weary of him, had thrown him 


The Duel 113 


over, and did not that, she thought now, give him 
the right to treat her as he chose? 

‘Here I'll say good-bye to you, darling,” said 
Laevsky. ‘Ilya Mihalitch will see you home.” 

He nodded to Kirilin, and, quickly crossing the 
boulevard, walked along the street to Sheshkovsky’s, 
where there were lights in the windows, and then 
they heard the gate bang as he went in. 

‘‘ Allow me to have an explanation with you,” 
said Kirilin. ‘‘ I’m not a boy, not some Atchkasov 
or Latchkasov, Zatchkasov. . . . I demand serious 
attention.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna’s heart began beating 
violently. She made no reply. 

‘The abrupt change in your behaviour to me I 
put down at first to coquetry,”’ Kirilin went on; 
“now I see that you don’t know how to behave with 
gentlemanly people. You simply wanted to play 
with me, as you are playing with that wretched 
Armenian boy; but I’m a gentleman and I insist on 
being treated like a gentleman. And so I am at 
your service... .” 

‘“[m miserable,” said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna 
beginning to cry, and to hide her tears she turned 
away. 

“I’m miserable too,” said Kirilin, ‘‘ but what of 
that?” : 

Kirilin was silent for a space, then he said dis- 
tinctly and emphatically: 

‘““T repeat, madam, that if you do not give me an 


114 The Tales of Chekhov 


interview this evening, I’ll make a scandal this very 
evening.” 

“Let me off this evening,” said Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna, and she did not recognise her own voice, 
it was so weak and pitiful. 

‘““I must give you a lesson. . . . Excuse me for 
the roughness of my tone, but it’s necessary to give 
you a lesson. Yes, I regret to say I must give you 
a lesson. I insist on two interviews — to-day and 
to-morrow. After to-morrow you are perfectly free 
and can go wherever you like with any one you 
choose. ‘To-day and to-morrow.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna went up to her gate and 
stopped. 

“Let me go,” she murmured, trembling all over 
and seeing nothing before her in the darkness but 
his white tunic. ‘‘ You’re right: I’m a horrible 
woman. .°.'. Im to’ blame, but letume!gormiinag 
beg you.” She touched his cold hand and shud- 
dered! #) ~ Dibeseechsyou?: 2.7! 

“* Alas!” sighed Kirilin, ‘“‘ alas! it’s not part of 
my plan to let you go; I only mean to give you a 
lesson and make you realise. And what’s more, 
madam, I’ve too little faith in women.” 

(Ulmemuserable: i320)" 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna listened to the even 
splash of the sea, looked at the sky studded with 
stars, and longed to make haste and end it all, and 
get away from the cursed sensation of life, with 
its sea, stars, men, fever. 


’ 


The Duel 115 


‘Only not in my home,” she said coldly. ‘‘ Take 
me somewhere else.” 

‘“Come to Muridov’s. That’s better.” 

‘“'Where’s that?” 

“Near the old wall.” 

She walked quickly along the street and then 
turned into the side-street that led towards the 
mountains. It was dark. ‘There were pale streaks 
of light here and there on the pavement, from the 
lighted windows, and it seemed to her that, like a 
fly, she kept falling into the ink and crawling out into 
the light again. At one point he stumbled, almost 
fell down and burst out laughing. 

‘ He’s drunk,” thought Nadyezhda Fyodorovna. 
riNeverpmind: |) m.Never* mind; 7°:\/Sol'be! it,” 

Atchmianov, too, soon took leave of the party 
and followed Nadyezhda Fyodorovna to ask her 
to go for a row. He went to her house and looked 
over the fence: the windows were wide open, there 
were no lights. 

‘“ Nadyezhda Fyodorovna!” he called. 

A moment passed, he called again. 

‘““Who’s there?” he heard Olga’s voice. 

‘“Ts Nadyezhda Fyodorovna at home? ”’ 

‘No, she has not come in yet.” 


“Strange ... very strange,” thought Atch- 
mianoy,'’ feeling’ \ivery: uneasy.’ “She ‘went 
Homies. ..5 


He walked along the boulevard, then along the 
street, and glanced in at the windows of Sheshkoy- 


116 The Tales of Chekhov 


sky’s. Laevsky was sitting at the table without his 
coat on, looking attentively at his cards. 

‘“‘ Strange, strange,’ muttered Atchmianov, and 
remembering Laevsky’s hysterics, he felt ashamed. 
‘‘ If she is not at home, where is she?” 

He went to Nadyezhda Fyodorovna’s lodgings 
again, and looked at the dark windows. 

‘““Tt’s a cheat, a cheat . . .” he thought, remem- 
bering that, meeting him at midday at Marya Kon- 
stantinovna’s, she had promised to go in a boat with 
him that evening. 

The windows of the house where Kirilin lived 
were dark, and there was a policeman sitting asleep 
on a little bench at the gate. Everything was clear 
to Atchmianoy when he looked at the windows and 
the policeman. He made up his mind to go home, 
and set off in that direction, but somehow found him- 
self near Nadyezhda Fyodorovna’s lodgings again. 
He sat down on the bench near the gate and took 
off his hat, feeling that his head was burning with 
jealousy and resentment. 

The clock in the town church only struck twice 
in the twenty-four hours — at midday and midnight. 
Soon after it struck midnight he heard hurried foot- 
steps. 

‘To-morrow evening, then, again at Muridov’s,”’ 
Atchmianov heard, and he recognised Kirilin’s voice. 
‘ At eight o’clock; good-bye! ” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna made her appearance 
near the garden. Without noticing that Atchmianov 


The Duel 117 


was sitting on the bench, she passed beside him like 

a shadow, opened the gate, and leaving it open, 

went into the house. In her own room she lighted 

the candle and quickly undressed, but instead of get- 

ting into bed, she sank on her knees before a chair, 

flung her arms round it, and rested her head on it. 
It was past two when Laevsky came home. 


XV 


Having made up his mind to lie, not all at once 
but piecemeal, Laevsky went soon after one o'clock 
next day to Samoylenko to ask for the money that 
he might be sure to get off on Saturday. After his 
hysterical attack, which had added an acute feeling 
of shame to his depressed state of mind, it was un- 
thinkable to remain in the town. If Samoylenko 
should insist on his conditions, he thought it would 
be possible to agree to them and take the money, 
and next day, just as he was starting, to say that 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna refused to go. He would 
be able to persuade her that evening that the whole 
arrangement would be for her benefit. If Samoy- 
lenko, who was obviously under the influence of Von 
Koren, should refuse the money altogether or make 
fresh conditions, then he, Laevsky, would go off that 
very evening in a cargo vessel, or even in a sailing- 
boat, to Novy Athon or Novorossiisk, would send 
from there an humiliating telegram, and would stay 


118 The Tales of Chekhov 


there till his mother sent him the money for the 
journey. 

When he went into Samoylenko’s, he found Von 
Koren in the drawing-room. The zoologist had 
just arrived for dinner, and, as usual, was turning 
over the album and scrutinising the gentlemen in 
top-hats and the ladies in caps. 

“How very unlucky!” thought Laevsky, seeing 
him. “He may be in the way. Good-morning.” 

‘‘ Good-morning,” answered Von Koren, without 
looking at him. 

“Ts Alexandr Daviditch at home?” 

** Yes, in the kitchen.” 

Laevsky went into the kitchen, but seeing from 
the door that Samoylenko was busy over the salad, 
he went back into the drawing-room and sat down. 
He always had a feeling of awkwardness in the 
zoologist’s presence, and now he was afraid there 
would be talk about his attack of hysterics. There 
was more than a minute of silence. Von Koren sud- 
denly raised his eyes to Laevsky and asked: 

““ How do you feel after yesterday?” 

“Very well indeed,” said Laevsky, flushing. “ It 
really was nothing much. . . .” 

‘Until yesterday I thought it was only ladies who 
had hysterics, and so at first I thought you had St. 
Vitus’s dance.” 

Laevsky smiled ingratiatingly, and thought: 

“How indelicate on his part! He knows quite 
well how unpleasant it is for me... .” 


The Duel 119 


‘Yes, it was a ridiculous performance,” he said, 
still smiling. ‘‘ I’ve been laughing over it the whole 
morning. What’s so curious in an attack of hys- 
terics is that you know it is absurd, and are laugh- 
ing at it in your heart, and at the same time you 
sob. In our neurotic age we are the slaves of our 
nerves; they are our masters and do as they like 
with us. Civilisation has done us a bad turn in that 
WAMe ees, 

As Laevsky talked, he felt it disagreeable that 
Von Koren listened to him gravely, and looked at 
him steadily and attentively as though studying him; 
and he was vexed with himself that in spite of his 
dislike of Von Koren, he could not banish the in- 
gratiating smile from his face. 

‘““T must admit, though,” he added, “that there 
were immediate causes for the attack, and quite suf- 
ficient ones too. My health has been terribly shaky 
of late. To which one must add boredom, con- 
stantly being hard up . . . the absence of people 
and general interests. . . . My position is worse 
than a governor’s.” 

‘Yes, your position is a hopeless one,” answered 
Von Koren. 

These calm, cold words, implying something be- 
tween a jeer and an uninvited prediction, offended 
Laevsky. He recalled the zoologist’s eyes the eve- 
ning before, full of mockery and disgust. He was 
silent for a space and then asked, no longer smiling: 

“How do you know anything of my position?” 


120 The Tales of Chekhov 


“You were only just speaking of it yourself. Be- 
sides, your friends take such a warm interest in you, 
that I am hearing about you all day long.” 

‘“What friends? Samoylenko, I suppose?” 

; Wes: ‘he too.) 

‘““T would ask Alexandr Daviditch and my friends 
in general not to trouble so much about me.” 

“Here is Samoylenko; you had better ask him 
not to trouble so much about you.” 

‘“T don’t understand your tone,’’ Laevsky mut- 
tered, suddenly feeling as though he had only just 
realised that the zoologist hated and despised him, 
and was jeering at him, and was his bitterest and 
most inveterate enemy. 

“Keep that tone for some one else,’”’ he said 
softly, unable to speak aloud for the hatred with 
which his chest and throat were choking, as they had 
been the night before with laughter. 

Samoylenko came in in his shirt-sleeves, crimson 
and perspiring from the stifling kitchen. 

““ Ah, you here?”’ he said. ‘*‘ Good-morning, my 
dear boy. Have you had dinner? Don’t stand on 
ceremony. Have you had dinner?” 

‘“ Alexandr Daviditch,” said Laevsky, standing up, 
“though I did appeal to you to help me in a private 
matter, it did not follow that I released you from 
the obligation of discretion and respect for other 
people’s private affairs.” 

‘What's this?’ asked Samoylenko, in astonish- 
ment. 


The Duel 121 


‘““Tf you have no money,’’ Laevsky went on, rais- 
ing his voice and shifting from one foot to the other 
in his excitement, ‘‘ don’t give it; refuse it. But why 
spread abroad in every back street that my position 
is hopeless, and all the rest of it? I can’t endure 
such benevolence and friend’s assistance where 
there’s a shilling-worth of talk for a ha’p’orth of 
help! You can boast of your benevolence as much 
as you please, but no one has given you the right to 
gossip about my private affairs!” 

‘“‘ What private affairs?” asked Samoylenko, puz- 
zled and beginning to be angry. ‘‘If you’ve come 
here to be abusive, you had better clear out. You 
can come again afterwards! ”’ 

He remembered the rule that when one is angry 
with one’s neighbour, one must begin to count a hun- 
dred, and one will grow calm again; and he began 
rapidly counting. 

‘“T beg you not to trouble yourself about me,” 
Laevsky went on. ‘“ Don’t pay any attention to me, 
and whose business is it what I do and how I live? 
Yes, I want to go away. Yes, I get into debt, I 
drink, I am living with another man’s wife, I’m hys- 
terical, I’m ordinary. I am not so profound as 
some people, but whose business is that? Respect 
other people’s privacy.” 

‘“Fxcuse me, brother,” said Samoylenko, who had 
counted up to thirty-five, “but .. .” 

‘Respect other people’s individuality!” inter- 
rupted Laevsky. ‘‘ This continual gossip about 


123 The Tales of Chekhov 


other people’s affairs, this sighing and groaning and 
everlasting prying, this eavesdropping, this friendly 
sympathy . . . damn it all! They lend me money 
and make conditions as though I were a schoolboy! 
I am treated as the devil knows what! I don’t want 
anything,” shouted Laevsky, staggering with excite- 
ment and afraid that it might end in another attack 
of hysterics. “I shan’t get away on Saturday, 
then,” flashed through his mind. ‘I want nothing. 
All I ask of you is to spare me your protecting care. 
I’m not a boy, and I’m not mad, and I beg you to 
leave off looking after me.” 

The deacon came in, and seeing Laevsky pale and 
gesticulating, addressing his strange speech to the 
portrait of Prince Vorontsov, stood still by the door 
as though petrified. 

‘This continual prying into my soul,” Laevsky 
went on, “is insulting to my human dignity, and I 
beg these volunteer detectives to give up their spy- 
ing! Enough!” 

‘““What’s that ... what did you say?” said 
Samoylenko, who had counted up toa hundred. He 
turned crimson and went up to Laevsky. 

‘Tt’s enough,” said Laevsky, breathing hard and 
snatching up his cap. 

‘“‘1’m a Russian doctor, a nobleman by birth, and 
a civil councillor,” said Samoylenko emphatically. 
‘“‘T’ve never been a spy, and I allow no one to in- 
sult me!’ he shouted in a breaking voice, emphasis- 
ing the last word. ‘“ Hold your tongue!” 


The Duel 172 


The deacon, who had never seen the doctor so 
majestic, so swelling with dignity, so crimson and so 
ferocious, shut his mouth, ran out into the entry and 
there exploded with laughter. 

As though through a fog, Laevsky saw Von Koren 
get up and, putting his hands in his trouser-pockets, 
stand still in an attitude of expectancy, as though 
waiting to see what would happen. This calm atti- 
tude struck Laevsky as insolent and insulting to the 
last degree. 

‘“‘ Kindly take back your words,” shouted Samoy- 
lenko. 

Laevsky, who did not by now remember what his 
words were, answered: 

‘Leave me alone! I ask for nothing. All I ask 
is that you and German upstarts of Jewish origin 
should let me alone! Or I shall take steps to make 
you! Iwill fight you!” 

‘“ Now we understand,” said Von Koren, coming 
from behind the table. ‘‘ Mr. Laevsky wants to 
amuse himself with a duel before he goes away. I 
can give him that pleasure. Mr. Laevsky, I accept 
your challenge.” 

‘* A challenge,” said Laevsky, in a low voice, go- 
ing up to the zoologist and looking with hatred at 
his swarthy brow and curly hair. “A challenge? 
By all means! I hate you! I hate you!” 

“Delighted. To-morrow morning early near 
Kerbalay’s. I leave all details to your taste. And 
now, clear out!”’ 


124 ~—«‘The Tales of Chekhov 


‘“T hate you,” Laevsky said softly, breathing hard. 
““T have hated you a long while! A duel! Yes!” 

“* Get rid of him, Alexandr Daviditch, or else I’m 
going,” said Von Koren. ‘‘ He’ll bite me.” 

Von Koren’s cool tone calmed the doctor; he 
seemed suddenly to come to himself, to recover his 
reason; he put both arms round Laevsky’s waist, 
and, leading him away from the zoologist, muttered 
in a friendly voice that shook with emotion: 

‘“My. friends . ...: dear, good... .. . yougmenioar 
your tempers and that’s enough ... and that’s 
enough, my friends.” 

Hearing his soft, friendly voice, Laevsky felt that 
something unheard of, monstrous, had just hap- 
pened to him, as though he had been nearly run over 
by a train; he almost burst into tears, waved his 
hand, and ran out of the room. 

‘To feel that one is hated, to expose oneself be- 
fore the man who hates one, in the most pitiful, con- 
temptible, helpless state. My God, how hard it is! ” 
he thought a little while afterwards as he sat in the 
pavilion, feeling as though his body were scarred 
by the hatred of which he had just been the object. 

‘* How coarse it is, my God!” 

Cold water with brandy in it revived him. He 
vividly pictured Von Koren’s calm, haughty face; 
his eyes the day before, his shirt like a rug, his voice, 
his white hand; and heavy, passionate, hungry hatred 
rankled in his breast and clamoured for satisfaction. 
In his thoughts he felled Von Koren to the ground, 


The Duel 125 


and trampled him underfoot. He remembered to 
the minutest detail all that had happened, and won- 
dered how he could have smiled ingratiatingly to 
that insignificant man, and how he could care for 
the opinion of wretched petty people whom nobody 
knew, living in a miserable little town which was not, 
it seemed, even on the map, and of which not one 
decent person in Petersburg had heard. If this 
wretched little town suddenly fell into ruins or caught 
fire, the telegram with the news would be read in 
Russia with no more interest than an advertisement 
of the sale of second-hand furniture. Whether he 
killed Von Koren next day or left him alive, it would 
be just the same, equally useless and uninteresting. 
Better to shoot him in the leg or hand, wound him, 
then laugh at him, and let him, like an insect with 
a broken leg lost in the grass — let him be lost with 
his obscure sufferings in the crowd of insignificant 
people like himself. 

Laevsky went to Sheshkovsky, told him all about 
it, and asked him to be his second; then they both 
went to the superintendent of the postal telegraph 
department, and asked him, too, to be a second, and 
stayed to dinner with him. At dinner there was a 
great deal of joking and laughing. Laevsky made 
jests at his own expense, saying he hardly knew how 
to fire off a pistol, calling himself a royal archer and 
William Tell. 

‘We must give this gentleman a lesson . . .”’ he 
said. 


126 ' The Tales of Chekhov 


After dinner they sat down to cards. Laevsky 
played, drank wine, and thought that duelling was 
stupid and senseless, as it did not decide the question 
but only complicated it, but that it was sometimes 
impossible to get on without it. In the given case, 
for instance, one could not, of course, bring an ac- 
tion against Von Koren. And this duel was so far 
good in that it made it impossible for Laevsky 
to remain in the town afterwards. He got a 
little drunk and interested in the game, and felt at 
ease. 

But when the sun had set and it grew dark, he 
was possessed by a feeling of uneasiness. It was 
not fear at the thought of death, because while he 
was dining and playing cards, he had for some rea- 
son a confident belief that the duel would end in 
nothing; it was dread at the thought of something 
unknown which was to happen next morning for the 
first time in his life, and dread of the coming night. 
. . . He knew that the night would be long and 
sleepless, and that he would have to think not only 
of Von Koren and his hatred, but also of the moun- 
tain of lies which he had to get through, and which 
he had not strength or ability to dispense with. It 
was as though he had been taken suddenly ill; all at 
once he lost all interest in the cards and in people, 
grew restless, and began asking them to let him go 
home. He was eager to get into bed, to lie with- 
out moving, and to prepare his thoughts for the 
night. Sheshkovsky and the postal superintendent 


The Duel 137 


saw him home and went on to Von Koren’s to ar- 
range about the duel. 

Near his lodgings Laevsky met Atchmianoy. The 
young man was breathless and excited. 

‘Tam looking for you, Ivan Andreitch,” he said. 
“IT beg you to come quickly. . . .” 

eeWihere? 

‘Some one wants to see you, some one you don’t 
know, about very important business; he earnestly 
begs you to come for a minute. He wants to speak 
to you of something. . . . For him it’s a question of 
life and death... .” In his excitement Atchmia- 
nov spoke in a strong Armenian accent. 

“Who is it?’ asked Laevsky. 

‘“ He asked me not to tell you his name.” 

‘Tell him I’m busy; to-morrow, if he likes. . . . 

“How can you!” Atchmianov was aghast. 
“He wants to tell you something very important for 
you... very important! If you ‘don't **come, 
something dreadful will happen.” 

“Strange . . .’’ muttered Laevsky, unable to un- 
derstand why Atchmianov was so excited and what 
mysteries there could be in this dull, useless little 
town. 

“Strange,” he repeated in hesitation. ‘“ Come 
along, though; I don’t care.”’ 

Atchmianoy walked rapidly on ahead and Laey- 
sky followed him. They walked down a street, 
then turned into an alley. 


‘What a bore this is!” said Laevsky. 


” 


128 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘‘ One minute, one minute . . . it’s near.”’ 

Near the old rampart they went down a narrow 
alley between two empty enclosures, then they came 
into a sort of large yard and went towards a small 
house. 

“That’s Muridov’s, isn’t it?” asked Laevsky. 

ce Nese: 

‘‘ But why we’ve come by the back yards I don’t 
understand. We might have come by the street; 
IE Synearers acu) 

‘* Never mind, never mind... . 

It struck Laevsky as strange, too, that Atch- 
mianov led him to a back entrance, and motioned 
to him as though bidding him go quietly and hold 
his tongue. 

“This way, this way...’ said Atchmianov, 
cautiously opening the door and going into the pas- 
sage on tiptoe. ‘“‘ Quietly, quietly, I beg you... 
they may hear.” 

He listened, drew a deep breath and said in a 
whisper: 

Open jthat).door,, and\..go(/in 2, tadonjtybe 
afraid.” 

Laevsky, puzzled, opened the door and went into 
a room with a low ceiling and curtained windows. 

There was a candle on the table. 

‘“ What do you want?” asked some one in the 
next room. “ Is it you, Muridov? ” 

Laevsky turned into that room and saw Kirilin, 
and beside him Nadyezhda Fyodorovna. 


” 


” 


The Duel ine 


He didn’t hear what was said to him; he stag- 
gered back, and did not know how he found him- 
self in the street. His hatred for Von Koren and 
his uneasiness — all had vanished from his soul. As 
he went home he waved his right arm awkwardly and 
looked carefully at the ground under his feet, trying 
to step where it was smooth. At home in his study 
he walked backwards and forwards, rubbing his 
hands, and awkwardly shrugging his shoulders and 
neck, as though his jacket and shirt were too tight; 
then he lighted a candle and sat down to the 
fablers:. ne 


XVI 


‘The ‘humane studies’ of which you speak will 
only satisfy human thought when, as they advance, 
they meet the exact sciences and progress side by 
side with them. Whether they will meet under 
a new microscope, or in the monologues of a new 
Hamlet, or in a new religion, I do not know, but I 
expect the earth will be covered with a crust of ice 
before it comes to pass. Of all humane learning 
the most durable and living is, of course, the teach- 
ing of Christ; but look how differently even that is 
interpreted! Some teach that we must love all our 
neighbours but make an exception of soldiers, crim- 
inals, and lunatics. They allow the first to be killed 
in war, the second to be isolated or executed, and 


130 The Tales of Chekhov 


the third they forbid to marry. Other interpreters 
teach that we must love all our neighbours without 
exception, with no distinction of plus or minus. Ac- 
cording to their teaching, if a consumptive or a mur- 
derer or an epileptic asks your daughter in mar- 
riage, you must let him have her. If crétins go to 
war against the physically and mentally healthy, 
don’t defend yourselves. This advocacy of love 
for love’s sake, like art for art’s sake, if it could 
have power, would bring mankind in the long run to 
complete extinction, and so would become the vastest 
crime that has ever been committed upon earth. 
There are very many interpretations, and since there 
are many of them, serious thought is not satisfied by 
any one of them, and hastens to add its own indi- 
vidual interpretation to the mass. For that reason 
you should never put a question on a philosophical 
or so-called Christian basis; by so doing you only 
remove the question further from solution.” 

The deacon listened to the zoologist attentively, 
thought a little, and asked: 

‘Have the philosophers invented the moral law 
which is innate in every man, or did God create it 
together with the body?” 

““T don’t know. But that law is so universal 
among all peoples and all ages that I fancy we ought 
to recognise it as organically connected with man. 
It is not invented, but exists and will exist. I don’t 
tell you that one day it will be seen under the micro- 
scope, but its organic connection is shown, indeed, 


The Duel 131 


by evidence: serious affections of the brain and all 
so-called mental diseases, to the best of my belief, 
show themselves first of all in the perversion of the 
moral law.” 

‘““Good. So then, just as our stomach bids us 
eat, our moral sense bids us love our neighbours. 
Is that it? But our natural man through self-love 
opposes the voice of conscience and reason, and this 
gives rise to many brain-racking questions. To 
whom ought we to turn for the solution of those 
questions if you forbid us to put them on the phil- 
osophic basis?” 

“Turn to what little exact science we have. Trust 
to evidence and the logic of facts. It is true it is 
but little, but, on the other hand, it is less fluid and 
shifting than philosophy. The moral law, let us 
suppose, demands that you love your neighbour. 
Well? Love ought to show itself in the removal 
of everything which in one way or another is in- 
jurious to men and threatens them with danger in 
the present or in the future. Our knowledge and 
the evidence tells us that the morally and physically 
abnormal are a menace to humanity. If so you 
must struggle against the abnormal; if you are not 
able to raise them to the normal standard you must 
have strength and ability to render them harmless — 
that is, to destroy them.” 

“So love consists in the strong overcoming the 


weak.” 
‘“ Undoubtedly.” 


132 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘‘ But you know the strong crucified our Lord Jesus 
Christ,” said the deacon hotly. 

“The fact is that those who crucified Him were 
not the strong but the weak. Human culture weak- 
ens and strives to nullify the struggle for existence 
and natural selection; hence the rapid advancement 
of the weak and their predominance over the strong. 
Imagine that you succeeded in instilling into bees 
humanitarian ideas in their crude and elementary 
form. What would come of it? The drones who 
ought to be killed would remain alive, would devour 
the honey, would corrupt and stifle the bees, result- 
ing in the predominance of the weak over the strong 
and the degeneration of the latter. The same pro- 
cess is taking place now with humanity; the weak are. 
oppressing the strong. Among savages untouched 
by civilisation the strongest, cleverest, and most 
moral takes the lead; he is the chief and the master. 
But we civilised men have crucified Christ, and we 
go on crucifying Him, so there is something lacking 
in us. . . . And that something one ought to raise 
up in ourselves, or there will be no end to these 
engors:” 

‘But what criterion have you to distinguish the 
strong from the weak? ”’ 

‘““ Knowledge and evidence. ‘The tuberculous and 
the scrofulous are recognised by their diseases, and 
the insane and the immoral by their actions.” 

‘““ But mistakes may be made!” 


The Duel 133 


‘““ Yes, but it’s no use to be afraid of getting your 
feet wet when you are threatened with the deluge! ” 

“ That’s philosophy,” laughed the deacon. 

‘‘ Not a bit of it. You are so corrupted by your 
seminary philosophy that you want to see nothing 
but fog in everything. The abstract studies with 
which your youthful head is stuffed are called ab- 
stract just because they abstract your minds from 
what is obvious. Look the devil straight in the eye, 
and if he’s the devil, tell him he’s the devil, and don’t 
go calling to Kant or Hegel for explanations.” 

The zoologist paused and went on: 

‘““ Twice two’s four, and a stone’s a stone. Here 
to-morrow we have a duel. You and I will say it’s 
stupid and absurd, that the duel is out of date, that 
there is no real difference between the aristocratic 
duel and the drunken brawl in the pot-house, and yet 
we shall not stop, we shall go there and fight. So 
there is some force stronger than our reasoning. 
We shout that war is plunder, robbery, atrocity, frat- 
ricide; we cannot look upon blood without fainting; 
but the French or the Germans have only to insult 
us for us to feel at once an exaltation of spirit; in 
the most genuine way we shout ‘ Hurrah!’ and rush 
to attack the foe. You will invoke the blessing of 
God on our weapons, and our valour will arouse uni- 
versal and general enthusiasm. Again it follows 
that there is a force, if not higher, at any rate 
stronger, than us and our philosophy. We can no 


134 The Tales of Chekhov 


more stop it than that cloud which is moving up- 
wards over the sea. Don’t be hypocritical, don’t 
make a long nose at it on the sly; and don’t say, 
‘Ah, old-fashioned, stupid! Ah, it’s inconsistent 
with Scripture!’ but look it straight in the face, 
recognise its rational lawfulness, and when, for in- 
stance, it wants to destroy a rotten, scrofulous, cor- 
rupt race, don’t hinder it with your pilules and mis- 
understood quotations from the Gospel. Leskov 
has a story of a conscientious Danila who found a 
leper outside the town, and fed and warmed him in 
the name of love and of Christ. If that Danila had 
really loved humanity, he would have dragged the 
leper as far as possible from the town, and would 
have flung him in a pit, and would have gone to save 
the healthy. Christ, I hope, taught us a rational, 
intelligent, practical love.”’ 

‘“ What a fellow you are!” laughed the deacon. 
** You don’t believe in Christ. Why do you mention 
His name so often?” 

“Yes, I do believe in Him. Only, of course, in 
my own way, not in yours. Oh, deacon, deacon!” 
laughed the zoologist; he put his arm round the 
deacon’s waist, and said gaily: “Well? Are you 
coming with us to the duel to-morrow? ”’ 

‘‘ My orders don’t allow it, or else I should come.” 

‘What do you mean by ‘ orders’ ?”’ 

‘“‘T have been consecrated. I am in a state of 
grace.” 


The Duel 135 


“Oh, deacon, deacon,’ repeated Von Koren, 
laughing, ‘‘ I love talking to you.” 

“You say you have faith,” said the deacon. 
“What sort of faith is it? Why, I have an uncle, 
a priest, and he believes so that when in time of 
drought he goes out into the fields to pray for rain, 
he takes his umbrella and leather overcoat for fear 
of getting wet through on his way home. ‘That’s 
faith! When he speaks of Christ, his face is full 
of radiance, and all the peasants, men and women, 
weep floods of tears. He would stop that cloud . 
and put all those forces you talk about to flight. 
Yes . . . faith moves mountains.” 

The deacon laughed and slapped the zoologist on 
the shoulder. 

“Yes . . .” he went on; “here you are teaching 
all the time, fathoming the depths of the ocean, 
dividing the weak and the strong, writing books 
and challenging to duels — and everything remains 
as it is; but, behold! some feeble old man will mut- 
ter just one word with a holy spirit, or a new Ma- 
homet, with a sword, will gallop from Arabia, and 
everything will be topsy-turvy, and in Europe not 
one stone will be left standing upon another.” 

‘Well, deacon, that’s on the knees of the gods.” 

‘“‘ Faith without works is dead, but works without 
faith are worse still — mere waste of time and noth- 
ing more.” 

_ The doctor came into sight on the sea-front. He 


136 The Tales of Chekhov 


saw the deacon and the zoologist, and went up to 
them. 

‘T believe everything is ready,” he said, breathing 
hard. ‘‘ Govorovsky and Boyko will be the sec- 
onds. They will start at five o’clock in the morn- 
ing. How it has clouded over,” he said, looking at 


the sky. “One can see nothing; there will be rain 
directly.” 

‘“T hope you are coming with us? ”’ said the zoolo- 
gist. 


“No, God preserve me; I’m worried enough as 
it is. Ustimovitch is going instead of me. I’ve 
spoken to him already.” 

Far over the sea was a flash of lightning, followed 
by a hollow roll of thunder. 

‘“ How stifling it is before a storm!” said Von 
Koren. “I bet you’ve been to Laevsky already and 
have been weeping on his bosom.” 

‘Why should I go to him?” answered the doc- 
tor in confusion. ‘‘ What next?” 

Before sunset he had walked several times along 
the boulevard and the street in the hope of meeting 
Laevsky. He was ashamed of his hastiness and 
the sudden outburst of friendliness which had fol- 
lowed it. He wanted to apologise to Laevsky in a 
joking tone, to give him a good talking to, to soothe 
him and to tell him that the duel was a survival of 
medieval barbarism, but that Providence itself had 
brought them to the duel as a means of reconcilia- 


The Duel 137 


tion; that the next day, both being splendid and 
highly intelligent people, they would, after exchang- 
ing shots, appreciate each other’s noble qualities 
and would become friends. But he could not come 
across Laevsky. 

‘““What should I go and see him for?” repeated 
Samoylenko. “I did not insult him; he insulted 
me. Tell me, please, why he attacked me. What 
harm had I done him? I go into the drawing- 
room, and, all of a sudden, without the least provo- 
cation: ‘Spy!’ (There’s a nice thing! Tell me, 
how did it begin? What did you say to him?” 

‘I told him his position was hopeless. And I 
was right. It is only honest men or scoundrels who 
can find an escape from any position, but one who 
wants to be at the same time an honest man and a 
scoundrel —it is a hopeless position. But it’s 
eleven o'clock, gentlemen, and we have to be up 
early to-morrow.” 

There was a sudden gust of wind; it blew up the 
dust on the sea-front, whirled it round in eddies, 
with a howl that drowned the roar of the sea. 

‘““ A squall,” said the deacon. ‘‘ We must go in, 
our eyes are getting full of dust.” 

As they went, Samoylenko sighed and, holding 
his hat, said: 

‘“T suppose I shan’t sleep to-night.” 

‘Don’t you agitate yourself,” laughed the zoolo- 
gist. ‘* You can set your mind at rest; the duel will 


138 The Tales of Chekhov 


end in nothing. Laevsky will magnanimously fire 
into the air — he can do nothing else; and I daresay 
I shall not fire at all. To be arrested and lose my 
time on Laevsky’s account — the game’s not worth 
the candle. By the way, what is the punishment 
for duelling? ” 

‘‘ Arrest, and in the case of the death of your 
opponent a maximum of three years’ imprisonment 
in the fortress.” 

“* The fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul?” 

“No, in a military fortress, I believe.” 

‘Though this fine gentleman ought to have a les- 
son!” 

Behind them on the sea, there was a flash of 
lightning, which for an instant lighted up the roofs 
of the houses and the mountains. The friends 
parted near the boulevard. When the doctor dis- 
appeared in the darkness and his steps had died 
away, Von Koren shouted to him: 

‘‘T only hope the weather won't interfere with us 
to-morrow! ”’ 

“Very likely it will! Please God it may!” 

“* Good-night ! ” 

‘“ What about the night? What do you say?” 

In the roar of the wind and the sea and the 
crashes of thunder, it was difficult to hear. 

“It’s nothing,’ shouted the zoologist, and hur- 
ried home. 


The Duel 139 
XVII 


“Upon my mind, weighed down with woe, 
Crowd thoughts, a heavy multitude: 
In silence memory unfolds 
Her long, long scroll before my eyes. 
Loathing and shuddering I curse 
And bitterly lament in vain, 
And bitter though the tears I weep 
I do not wash those lines away.” 
PUSHKIN. 


Whether they killed him next morning, or mocked 
at him — that is, left him his life — he was ruined, 
anyway. Whether this disgraced woman killed her- 
self in her shame and despair, or dragged on her 
pitiful existence, she was ruined anyway. 

So thought Laevsky as he sat at the table late in 
the evening, still rubbing his hands. ‘The windows 
suddenly blew open with a bang; a violent gust of 
wind burst into the room, and the papers fluttered 
from the table. Laevsky closed the windows and 
bent down to pick up the papers. He was aware 
of something new in his body, a sort of awkward- 
ness he had not felt before, and his movements were 
strange to him. He moved timidly, jerking with his 
elbows and shrugging his shoulders; and when he 
sat down to the table again, he again began rubbing 
his hands. His body had_-lost its suppleness. 

On the eve of death one ought to write to one’s 
nearest relation. Laevsky thought of this. He 
took a pen and wrote with a tremulous hand: 

‘* Mother! ” 


140 The Tales of Chekhov 


He wanted to write to beg his mother, for the 
sake of the merciful God in whom she believed, that 
she would give shelter and bring a little warmth and 
kindness into the life of the unhappy woman who, 
by his doing, had been disgraced and was in soli- 
tude, poverty, and weakness, that she would forgive 
and forget everything, everything, everything, and 
by her sacrifice atone to some extent for her son’s 
terrible sin. But he remembered how his mother, 
a stout, heavily-built old woman in a lace cap, used 
to go out into the garden in the morning, followed 
by her companion with the lap-dog; how she used 
to shout in a peremptory way to the gardener and 
the servants, and how proud and haughty her face 
was —he remembered all this and scratched out 
the word he had written. 

(There was a vivid flash of lightning at all three 
windows, and it was followed by a prolonged, deaf- 
ening roll of thunder, beginning with a hollow rum- 
ble and ending with a crash so violent that all the 
window-panes rattled. Laevsky got up, went to the 
window, and pressed his forehead against the pane. 
There was a fierce, magnificent storm. On the hori- 
zon lightning-flashes were flung in white streams 
from the storm-clouds into the sea, lighting up the 
high, dark waves over the far-away expanse. And 
to right and to left, and, no doubt, over the house 
too, the lightning flashed. 

“The storm! ” whispered Laevsky; he had a long- 
ing to pray to some one or to something, if only to 


The Duel 141 


the lightning or the storm-clouds. ‘‘ Dear storm!” 

He remembered how as a boy he used to run out 
into the garden without a hat on when there was a 
storm, and how two fair-haired girls with blue eyes 
used to run after him, and how they got wet through 
with the rain; they laughed with delight, but when 
there was a loud peal of thunder, the girls used to 
nestle up to the boy confidingly, while he crossed 
himself and made haste to repeat: ‘‘ Holy, holy, 
holy. . . .” Oh, where had they vanished to! In 
what sea were they drowned, those dawning days 
of pure, fair life? He had no fear of the storm, 
no love of nature now; he had no God. All the 
confiding girls he had ever known had by now been 
ruined by him and those like him. All his life he 
had not planted one tree in his own garden, nor 
grown one blade of grass; and living among the 
living, he had not saved one fly; he had done nothing 
but destroy and ruin, and lie, lie... . 

‘‘ What in my past was not vice?” he asked him- 
self, trying to clutch at some bright memory as a 
man falling down a precipice clutches at the bushes. 

School? The university? But that was a sham. 
He had neglected his work and forgotten what he 
had learnt. The service of his country? ‘That, 
too, was a sham, for he did nothing in the Service, 
took a salary for doing nothing, and it was an abom- 
inable swindling of the State for which one was 
not punished. 

He had no craving for truth, and had not sought 


142 The Tales of Chekhov 


it; spellbound by vice and lying, his conscience had 
slept or been silent. Like a stranger, like an alien 
from another planet, he had taken no part in the 
common life of men, had been indifferent to their 
sufferings, their ideas, their religion, their sciences, 
their strivings, and their struggles. He had not 
said one good word, not written one line that was 
not useless and vulgar; he had not done his fellows 
one ha’p’orth of service, but had eaten their bread, 
drunk their wine, seduced their wives, lived on their 
thoughts, and to justify his contemptible, parasitic 
life in their eyes and in his own, he had always tried 
to assume an air of being higher and better than 
they! whres flies lest du. 4: 

He vividly remembered what he had seen that 
evening at Muridoy’s, and he was in an insufferable 
anguish of loathing and misery. Kirilin and Atch- 
mianov were loathsome, but they were only continu- 
ing what he had begun; they were his accomplices 
and his disciples. This young weak woman had 
trusted him more than a brother, and he had de- 
prived her of her husband, of her friends and of 
her country, and had brought her here —to the 
heat, to fever, and to boredom; and from day to 
day she was bound to reflect, like a mirror, his idle- 
ness, his viciousness and falsity — and that was all 
she had had to fill her weak, listless, pitiable life. 
Then he had grown sick of her, had begun to hate 
her, but had not had the pluck to abandon her, and 
he had tried to entangle her more and more closely 


The Duel 143 


in a web of lies. . . . These men had done the rest. 

Laevsky sat at the table, then got up and went to 
the window; at one minute he put out the candle 
and then he lighted it again. He cursed himself 
aloud, wept and wailed, and asked forgiveness; 
several times he ran to the table in despair, and 
wrote: 

‘“* Mother! ” 

Except his mother, he had no relations or near 
friends; but how could his mother help him? And 
where was she? He had an impulse to run to 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, to fall at her feet, to kiss 
her hands and feet, to beg her forgiveness; but she 
was his victim, and he was afraid of her as though 
she were dead. 

‘“My life is ruined,” he repeated, rubbing his 
hands. ‘‘ Why am[ still alive, my God! .. .” 

He had cast out of heaven his dim star; it had fal- 
len, and its track was lost in the darkness of night. 
It would never return to the sky again, because life 
was given only once and never came a second time. 
If he could have turned back the days and years of 
the past, he would have replaced the falsity with 
truth, the idleness with work, the boredom with hap- 
piness; he would have given back purity to those 
whom he had robbed of it. He would have found 
God and goodness, but that was as impossible as to 
put back the fallen star into the sky, and because it 
was impossible he was in despair. 

When the storm was over, he sat by the open win- 


144 The Tales of Chekhov 


dow and thought calmly of what was before him. 
Von Koren would most likely kill him. The man’s 
clear, cold theory of life justified the destruction of 
the rotten and the useless; if it changed at the cru- 
cial moment, it would be the hatred and the repug- 
nance that Laevsky inspired in him that would save 
him. If he missed his aim or, in mockery of his 
hated opponent, only wounded him, or fired in the 
air, what could he do then? Where could he go? 

‘“Go to Petersburg?” Laevsky asked himself. 
But that would mean beginning over again the old 
life which he cursed. And the man who seeks sal- 
vation in change of place like a migrating bird would 
find nothing anywhere, for all the world is alike to 
him. Seek salvation in men? In whom and how? 
Samoylenko’s kindness and generosity could no more 
save him than the deacon’s laughter or Von Koren’s 
hatred. He must look for salvation in himself 
alone, and if there were no finding it, why waste 
time? He must kill himself, that was all... . 

He heard the sound of a carriage. It was getting 
light. The carriage passed by, turned, and crunch- 
ing on the wet sand, stopped near the house. ‘There 
were two men in the carriage. 

‘Wait a minute; I’m coming directly,” Laevsky 
said to them out of the window. ‘I’m not asleep. 
Surely it’s not time yet?” 

‘Yes, it’s four o'clock. By the time we get 
there; Stee 


The Duel 145 


Laevsky put on his overcoat and cap, put some 
cigarettes in his pocket, and stood still hesitating. 
He felt as though there was something else he must 
do. In the street the seconds talked in low voices 
and the horses snorted, and this sound in the damp, 
early morning, when everybody was asleep and light 
was hardly dawning in the sky, filled Laevsky’s soul 
with a disconsolate feeling which was like a pre- 
sentiment of evil. He stood for a little, hesitating, 
and went into the bedroom. 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was lying stretched out 
on the bed, wrapped from head to foot in a rug. 
She did not stir, and her whole appearance, espe- 
cially her head, suggested an Egyptian mummy. 
Looking at her in silence, Laevsky mentally asked 
her forgiveness, and thought that if the heavens 
were not empty and there really were a God, then 
He would save her; if there were no God, then she 
had better perish — there was nothing for her to 
live for. 

All at once she jumped up, and sat up in bed. 
Lifting her pale face and looking with horror at 
Laevsky, she asked: 

“Ts it you? Is the storm over?” 

ay esil’ 

She remembered; put both hands to her head 
and shuddered all over. 

‘“ How miserable Iam!” she said. “If only you 
knew how miserable I am! I expected,” she went 


146 The Tales of Chekhov 


on, half closing her eyes, ‘‘ that you would kill me 
or turn me out of the house into the rain and storm, 
but‘ tyou ‘delay .°.°sdelay:.° 2.7 

Warmly and impulsively he put his arms round 
her and covered her knees and hands with kisses. 
‘Then when she muttered something and shuddered 
with the thought of the past, he stroked her hair, 
and looking into her face, realised that this unhappy, 
sinful woman was the one creature near and dear 
to him, whom no one could replace. 

When he went out of the house and got into the 
carriage he wanted to return home alive. 


XVIII 


The deacon got up, dressed, took his thick, gnarled 
stick and slipped quietly out of the house. It was 
dark, and for the first minute when he went into 
the street, he could not even see his white stick. 
There was not a single star in the sky, and it looked 
as though there would be rain again. There was 
a smell of wet sand and sea. 

“It’s to be hoped that the mountaineers won’t 
attack us,” thought the deacon, hearing the tap of 
the stick on the pavement, and noticing how loud 
and lonely the taps sounded in the stillness of the 
night. 

When he got out of town, he began to see both 
the road and his stick. Here and there in the black 
sky there were dark cloudy patches, and soon a star 


The Duel 147 


peeped out and timidly blinked its one eye. The 
deacon walked along the high rocky coast and did 
not see the sea; it was slumbering below, and its 
unseen waves broke languidly and heavily on the 
shore, as though sighing ‘‘ Ouf!”’ and how slowly! 
One wave broke —the deacon had time to count 
eight steps; then another broke, and six steps; later 
a third. As before, nothing could be seen, and in 
the darkness one could hear the languid, drowsy 
drone of the sea. One could hear the infinitely far- 
away, inconceivable time when God moved above 
chaos. 

The deacon felt uncanny. He hoped God would 
not punish him for keeping company with infidels, 
and even going to look at their duels. The duel 
would be nonsensical, bloodless, absurd, but how- 
ever that might be, it was a heathen spectacle, and 
it was altogether unseemly for an ecclesiastical per- 
son to be present at it. He stopped and wondered 
—should he go back? But an intense, restless cu- 
riosity triumphed over his doubts, and he went on. 

‘Though they are infidels they are good people, 
and will be saved,” he assured himself. ‘‘ They are 
sure to be saved,” he said aloud, lighting a cigarette. 

By what standard must one measure men’s qual- 
ities, to judge rightly of them? The deacon re- 
membered his enemy, the inspector of the clerical 
school, who believed in God, lived in chastity, and 
did not fight duels; but he used to feed the deacon 
on bread with sand in it, and on one occasion almost 


148 The Tales of Chekhoy 


pulled off the deacon’s ear. If human life was so 
artlessly constructed that every one respected this 
cruel and dishonest inspector who stole the Govern- 
ment flour, and his health and salvation were prayed 
for in the schools, was it just to shun such men as 
Von Koren and Laevsky, simply because they were 
unbelievers? (Ihe deacon was weighing this ques- 
tion, but he recalled how absurd Samoylenko had 
looked yesterday, and that broke the thread of his 
ideas. What fun they would have next day! ‘The 
deacon imagined how he would sit under a bush and 
look on, and when Von Koren began boasting next 
day at dinner, he, the deacon, would begin laughing 
and telling him all the details of the duel. 

‘“* How do you know all about it?’ the zoologist 
would ask. 

‘‘ Well, there you are! I stayed at home, but I 
know all about it.” 

It would be nice to write a comic description of 
the duel. His father-in-law would read it and 
laugh. A good story, told or written, was more 
than meat and drink to his father-in-law. 

The valley of the Yellow River opened before 
him. The stream was broader and fiercer for the 
rain, and instead of murmuring as before, it was 
raging. It began to get light. The grey, dingy 
morning, and the clouds racing towards the west to 
overtake the storm-clouds, the mountains girt with 
mist, and the wet trees, all struck the deacon as ugly 
and sinister. He washed at the brook, repeated his 


148 The Tales of Chekhov 


to the peculiarities of the Jewish race. When civi- 
lization reaches the Jews there will not be a trace of 
Judaism left. All young Jews are atheists now, ob- 
serve. The New Testament is the natural continua- 
tion of the Old, isn’t it?” 

I began trying to find out the reasons which had 
led him to take so grave and bold a step as the 
change of religion, but he kept repeating the same, 
‘The New Testament is the natural continuation of 
the Old’? —a formula obviously not his own, but 
acquired — which did not explain the question in the 
least. In spite of my efforts and artifices, the rea- 
sons remained obscure. If one could believe that 
he had embraced Orthodoxy from conviction, as he 
said he had done, what was the nature and founda- 
tion of this conviction it was impossible to grasp from 
his words. It was equally impossible to assume that 
he had changed his religion from interested motives: 
his cheap shabby clothes, his going on living at the 
expense of the convent, and the uncertainty of his fu- 
ture, did not look like interested motives. ‘There 
was nothing for it but to accept the idea that my 
companion had been impelled to change his religion 
by the same restless spirit which had flung him like 
a chip of wood from town to town, and which he, 
using the generally accepted formula, called the crav- 
ing for enlightenment. 

Before going to bed I went into the corridor to 
get a drink of water. When I came back my com- 
panion was standing in the middle of the room, and 
he looked at me with a scared expression. Huis face 
looked a greyish white, and there were drops of 
perspiration on his forehead. 


Uprooted 149 


‘““ My nerves are in an awful state,’ he muttered, 
with a sickly smile, ‘‘ awful! It’s acute psychologi- 
cal disturbance. But'that’s of no consequence.”’ 

And he began reasoning again that the New Testa- 
ment was a natural continuation of the Old, that 
Judaism has outlived its day. . . . Picking out his 
phrases, he seemed to be trying to put together the 
forces of his conviction and to smother with them 
the uneasiness of his soul, and to prove to himself 
that in giving up the religion of his fathers he had 
done nothing dreadful or peculiar, but had acted as a 
thinking man free from prejudice, and that therefore 
he could boldly remain in a room all alone with his 
conscience. He was trying to convince himself, and 
with his eyes besought my assistance. - 

Meanwhile a big clumsy wick had burned up on 
our tallow candle. It was by now getting light. At 
the gloomy little window, which was turning blue, we 
could distinctly see both banks of the Donets River 
and the oak copse beyond the river. It was time to 
sleep. 

‘It will be very interesting here to-morrow,”’ said 
my companion when I put out the candle and went 
to bed. ‘‘ After early mass, the procession will go 
in boats from the Monastery to the Hermitage.” 

Raising his right eyebrow and putting his head on 
one side, he prayed before the ikons, and, without 
undressing, lay down on his little sofa. 

Yes,” he said, turning over on the other side. 

“ Why “yes’?"” I asked. 

‘When I accepted orthodoxy in Novotcherkassk 
my mother was looking for me in Rostov. She felt 
that 1 meant to change my religion,” he sighed, and 


150 The Tales of Chekhov 


went on: “It is six years since I was there in the 
province of Mogilev. My sister must be married 
by now.” 

After a short silence, seeing that I was still awake, 
he began talking quietly of how they soon, thank 
God, would give him a job, and that at last he would 
have a home of his own, a settled position, his daily 
bread secure. . . . And I was thinking that this man 
would never have a home of his own, nor a settled 
position, nor his daily bread secure. He dreamed 
aloud of a village school as of the Promised Land; 
like the majority of people, he had a prejudice 
against a wandering life, and regarded it as some- 
thing exceptional, abnormal and accidental, like an 
illness, and was looking for salvation in ordinary 
workaday life. The tone of his voice betrayed that 
he was conscious of his abnormal position and re- 
gretted it. He seemed as it were apologizing and 
justifying himself. 

Not more than a yard from me lay a homeless 
wanderer; in the rooms of the hostels and by the 
carts in the courtyard among the pilgrims some hun- 
dreds of such homeless wanderers were waiting for 
the morning, and further away, if one could picture 
to oneself the whole of Russia, a vast multitude of 
such uprooted creatures was pacing at that moment 
along highroads and side-tracks, seeking something 
better, or were waiting for the dawn, asleep in way- 
side inns and little taverns, or on the grass under 
the open sky. . . . As I fell asleep I imagined how 
amazed and perhaps even overjoyed all these people 
would have been if reasoning and words could be 
found to prove to them that their life was as little 


Uprooted 151 


in need of justification as any other. In my sleep I 
heard a bell ring outside as plaintively as though 
shedding bitter tears, and the lay brother calling out 
several times: 

‘“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon 
us! Come to mass!” 

When I woke up my companion was not in the 
room. It was sunny and there was a murmur of 
the crowds through the window. Going out, I 
learned that mass was over and that the procession 
had set off for the Hermitage some time before. 
The people were wandering in crowds upon the river 
bank and, feeling at liberty, did not know what to do 
with themselves: they could not eat or drink, as the 
late mass was not yet over at the Hermitage; the 
Monastery shops where pilgrims are so fond of 
crowding and asking prices were still shut. In spite 
of their exhaustion, many of them from sheer bore- 
dom were trudging to the Hermitage. The path 
from the Monastery to the Hermitage, towards 
which I directed my steps, twined like a snake along 
the high steep bank, going up and down and thread- 
ing in and out among the oaks and pines. Below, the 
Donets gleamed, reflecting the sun; above, the rugged 
chalk cliff stood up white with bright green on the 
top from the young foliage of oaks and pines, which, 
hanging one above another, managed somehow to 
grow on the vertical cliff without falling. The pil- 
grims trailed along the path in single file, one behind 
another. The majority of them were Little Rus- 
sians from the neighbouring districts, but there were 
many from a distance, too, who had come on foot 
from the provinces of Kursk and Orel; in the long 


The Duel 151 


to be indulgent to him? Besides, he was the chief 
sufferer from his failings, like a sick man from his 
sores. Instead of being led by boredom and some 
sort of misunderstanding to look for degeneracy, ex- 
tinction, heredity, and other such incomprehensible 
things in each other, would they not do better to 
stoop a little lower and turn their hatred and anger 
where whole streets resounded with moanings from 
coarse ignorance, greed, scolding, impurity, swear- 
ing, the shrieks of women... . 

The sound of a carriage interrupted the deacon’s 
thoughts. He glanced out of the door and saw a 
carriage and in it three persons: Laevsky, Shesh- 
kovsky, and the superintendent of the post-office. 

“Stop!” said Sheshkovsky. 

All three got out of the carriage and looked at 
one another. 

‘They are not here yet,” said Sheshkovsky, shak- 
ing the mud off. “ Well? ‘Till the show begins, 
let us go and find a suitable spot; there’s not room 
to turn round here.” 

They went further up the river and soon vanished 
from sight. The Tatar driver sat in the carriage 
with his head resting on his shoulder and fell asleep. 
After waiting ten minutes the deacon came out of 
the drying-shed, and taking off his black hat that he 
might not be noticed, he began threading his way 
among the bushes and strips of maize along the bank, 
crouching and looking about him. The grass and 
maize were wet, and big drops fell on his head from 


152 The Tales of Chekhov 


the trees and bushes. ‘‘ Disgraceful! ”’ he muttered, 
picking up his wet and muddy skirt. ‘‘ Had I real- 
ised it, I would not have come.” 

Soon he heard voices and caught sight of them. 
Laevsky was walking rapidly to and fro in the small 
glade with bowed back and hands thrust in his 
sleeves; his seconds were standing at the water’s 
edge, rolling cigarettes. 

“Strange,” thought the deacon, not recognising 
Laevsky’s walk; ‘‘ he looks like an old man... .” 

‘How rude it is of them!” said the superin- 
tendent of the post-office, looking at his watch. “ It 
may be learned manners to be late, but to my think- 
ing it’s hoggish.”’ 

Sheshkovsky, a stout man with a black beard, 
listened and said: 

‘They're coming! ”’ 


XIX 


“It’s the first time in my life I’ve seen it! How 
glorious!’ said Von Koren, pointing to the glade 
and stretching out his hands to the east. ‘* Look: 
green rays!” 

In the east behind the mountains rose two green 
streaks of light, and it really was beautiful. The 
sun was rising. 

‘“‘Good-morning!”’ the zoologist went on, nod- 
ding to Laevsky’s seconds. ‘I’m not late, am I?” 

He was followed by his seconds, Boyko and Go- 


The Duel 153 


vorovsky, two very young officers of the same height, 
wearing white tunics, and Ustimovitch, the thin, un- 
sociable doctor; in one hand he had a bag of some 
sort, and in the other hand, as usual, a cane which 
he held behind him. Laying the bag on the ground 
and greeting no one, he put the other hand, too, be- 
hind his back and began pacing up and down the 
glade. 

Laevsky felt the exhaustion and awkwardness of 
a man who is soon perhaps to die, and is for that 
reason an object of general attention. He wanted 
to be killed as soon as possible or taken home. He 
saw the sunrise now for the first time in his life; 
the early morning, the green rays of light, the damp- 
ness, and the men in wet boots, seemed to him to 
have nothing to do with his life, to be superfluous 
and embarrassing. All this had no connection with 
the night he had been through, with his thoughts 
and his feeling of guilt, and so he would have gladly 
gone away without waiting for the duel. 

Von Koren was noticeably excited and tried to con- 
ceal it, pretending that he was more interested in the 
green light than anything. The seconds were con- 
fused, and looked at one another as though wonder- 
ing why they were here and what they were to do. 

‘“‘T imagine, gentlemen, there is no need for us to 
go further,” said Sheshkovsky. ‘This place will 
do.) 

“Yes, of course,” Von Koren agreed. 

A silence followed. Ustimovitch, pacing to and 


154 The Tales of Chekhov 


fro, suddenly turned sharply to Laevsky and said 
in a low voice, breathing into his face: 

‘They have very likely not told you my terms 
yet. Each side is to pay me fifteen roubles, and 
in the case of the death of one party, the survivor is 
to pay thirty.” 

Laevsky was already acquainted with the man, 
but now for the first time he had a distinct view of 
his lustreless eyes, his stiff moustaches, and wasted, 
consumptive neck; he was a money-grubber, not a 
doctor; his breath had an unpleasant smell of beef. 

‘What people there are in the world!” thought 
Laevsky, and answered: ‘‘ Very good.” 

The doctor nodded and began pacing to and fro 
again, and it was evident he did not need the money 
at all, but simply asked for it from hatred. Every 
one felt it was time to begin, or to end what had 
been begun, but instead of beginning or ending, they 
stood about, moved to and fro and smoked. ‘The 
young officers, who were present at a duel for the 
first time in their lives, and even now hardly believed 
in this civilian and, to their thinking, unnecessary 
duel, looked critically at their tunics and stroked 
their sleeves. Sheshkovsky went up to them and 
said softly: ‘‘ Gentlemen, we must use every effort 
to prevent this duel; they ought to be reconciled.”’ 

He flushed crimson and added: 

‘* Kirilin was at my rooms last night complaining 
that Laevsky had found him with Nadyezhda Fyo- 
dorovna, and all that sort of thing.” 


The Duel 155 


“Yes, we know that too,”’ said Boyko. 

‘Well, you see, then . . . Laevsky’s hands are 
trembling and all that sort of thing... he can 
scarcely hold a pistol now. (To fight with him is 
as inhuman as to fight a man who is drunk or who 
has typhoid. Ifa reconciliation cannot be arranged, 
we ought to put off the duel, gentlemen, or some- 
thing. . . . It’s such a sickening business, I can’t 
bear to see it.” 

“Talk to Von Koren.” 

‘““T don’t know the rules of duelling, damnation 
take them, and I don’t want to either; perhaps he’ll 
imagine Laevsky funks it and has sent me to him, 
but he can think what he likes — I'll speak to him.” 

Sheshkovsky hesitatingly walked up to Von Koren 
with a slight limp, as though his leg had gone to 
sleep; and as he went towards him, clearing his 
throat, his whole figure was a picture of indolence. 

‘““There’s something I must say to you, sir,” he 
began, carefully scrutinising the flowers on the zoolo- 
gist’s shirt. ‘‘It’s confidential. I don’t know the 
rules of duelling, damnation take them, and I don’t 
want to, and I look on the matter not as a second 
and that sort of thing, but as a man, and that’s all 
about it.” 

 Reesot Well?” 

‘““When seconds suggest reconciliation they are 
usually not listened to; it is looked upon as a for- 
mality. Amour propre and all that. But I hum- 
bly beg you to look carefully at Ivan Andreitch. 


156 The Tales of Chekhov 


He’s not in a normal state, so to speak, to-day — not 
in his right mind, and a pitiable object. He has had 
a misfortune. I can’t endure gossip. .. .” 

Sheshkoysky flushed crimson and looked round. 

“ But in view of the duel, I think it necessary to 
inform you, Laevsky found his madam last night 
at Muridov’s with . . . another gentleman.” 

‘How disgusting!’ muttered the zoologist; he 
turned pale, frowned, and spat loudly. ‘‘ Tfoo!” 

His lower lip quivered, he walked away from 
Sheshkovsky, unwilling to hear more, and as though 
he had accidentally tasted something bitter, spat 
loudly again, and for the first time that morning 
looked with hatred at Laevsky. His excitement and 
awkwardness passed off; he tossed his head and said 
aloud: 

‘Gentlemen, what are we waiting for, I should 
like to know? Why don't we begin?” 

Sheshkovsky glanced at the officers and shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“Gentlemen,” he said aloud, addressing no one 
in particular. ‘‘ Gentlemen, we propose that you 
should be reconciled.” 

‘‘ Let us make haste and get the formalities over,” 
said Von Koren. “ Reconciliation has been dis- 
cussed already. What is the next formality? 
Make haste, gentlemen, time won’t wait for us.” 

‘“ But we insist on reconciliation all the same,” 
said Sheshkovsky in a guilty voice, as a man com- 
pelled to interfere in another man’s business; he 


The Duel 157 


flushed, laid his hand on his heart, and went on: 
‘“‘ Gentlemen, we see no grounds for associating the 
offence with the duel. There’s nothing in common 
between duelling and offences against one another 
of which we are sometimes guilty through human 
weakness. You are university men and men of cul- 
ture, and no doubt you see in the duel nothing but 
a foolish and out-of-date formality, and all that sort 
of thing. That’s how we look at it ourselves, or we 
shouldn’t have come, for we cannot allow that in 
our presence men should fire at one another, and 
all that.” Sheshkovsky wiped the perspiration off 
his face and went on: ‘“ Make an end to your mis- 
understanding, gentlemen; shake hands, and let us 
go home and drink to peace. Upon my honour, 
gentlemen! ” 

Von Koren did not speak. Laevsky, seeing that 
they were looking at him, said: 

‘“‘T have nothing against Nikolay Vassilitch; if 
he considers I’m to blame, I’m ready to apologise to 
him.” 

Von Koren was offended. 

‘Tt is evident, gentlemen,” he said, “ you want 
Mr. Laevsky to return home a magnanimous and 
chivalrous figure, but I cannot give you and him 
that satisfaction. And there was no need to get 
up early and drive eight miles out of town simply 
to drink to peace, to have breakfast, and to explain 
to me that the duel is an out-of-date formality. 
A duel is a duel, and there is no need to make it 


158 The Tales of Chekhov 


more false and stupid than it is in reality. I want 
to fight!” 

A silence followed. Boyko took a pair of pistols 
out of a box; one was given to Von Koren and 
one to Laevsky, and then there followed a difficulty 
which afforded a brief amusement to the zoologist 
and the seconds. It appeared that of all the peo- 
ple present not one had ever in his life been at a 
duel, and no one knew precisely how they ought to 
stand, and what the seconds ought to say and do. 
But then Boyko remembered and began, with a smile, 


to explain. 
“Gentlemen, who remembers the description in 
Lermontov?’”’ asked Von Koren, laughing. “In 


Turgeney, too, Bazarov had a duel with some 
cholerae 

‘“‘'There’s no need to remember,” said Ustimo- 
vitch impatiently. ‘‘ Measure the distance, that’s 
all.? 

And he took three steps as though to show how 
to measure it. Boyko counted out the steps while 
his companion drew his sabre and scratched the 
earth at the extreme points to mark the barrier. 
In complete silence the opponents took their places. 

“Moles,” the deacon thought, sitting in the 
bushes. 

Sheshkovsky said something, Boyko explained 
something again, but Laevsky did not hear — or 
rather heard, but did not understand. He cocked 
his pistol when the time came to do so, and raised 


The Duel 159 


the cold, heavy weapon with the barrel upwards. 
He forgot to unbutton his overcoat, and it felt very 
tight over his shoulder and under his arm, and his 
arm rose as awkwardly as though the sleeve had 
been cut out of tin. He remembered the hatred he 
had felt the night before for the swarthy brow and 
curly hair, and felt that even yesterday at the mo- 
ment of intense hatred and anger he could not have 
shota man. Fearing that the bullet might somehow 
hit Von Koren by accident, he raised the pistol higher 
and higher, and felt that this too obvious magna- 
nimity was indelicate and anything but magnanimous, 
but he did not know how- else to do and could do 
nothing else. Looking at the pale, ironically smil- 
ing face of Von Koren, who evidently had been con- 
vinced from the beginning that his opponent would 
fire in the air, Laevsky thought that, thank God, 
everything would be over directly, and all that he 
had to do was to press the trigger rather hard... . 

He felt a violent shock on the shoulder; there was 
the sound of a shot and an answering echo in the 
mountains: ping-ting! 

Von Koren cocked his pistol and looked at Usti- 
movitch, who was pacing as before with his hands 
behind his back, taking no notice of any one. 

“Doctor,” said the zoologist, ‘‘ be so good as not 
to move to and fro like a pendulum. You make 
me dizzy.” 

The doctor stood still. Von Koren began to take 
aim at Laevsky. 


160 The Tales of Chekhov 


“Tt’s all over!” thought Laevsky. 

The barrel of the pistol aimed straight at his face, 
the expression of hatred and contempt in Von Ko- 
ren’s attitude and whole figure, and the murder just 
about to be committed by a decent man in broad day- 
light, in the presence of decent men, and the still- 
ness and the unknown force that compelled Laevsky 
to stand still and not to run — how mysterious it all 
was, how incomprehensible and terrible! 

The moment while Von Koren was taking aim 
seemed to Laevsky longer than a night: he glanced 
imploringly at the seconds; they were pale and did 
not stir. 

‘‘ Make haste and fire,” thought Laevsky, and felt 
that his pale, quivering, and pitiful face must arouse 
even greater hatred in Von Koren. 

“ Tl] kill him directly,” thought Von Koren, aim- 
ing at his forehead, with his finger already on the 
Gatch, i -Yes,,of coursed IWikill him: oeyp 

“He'll kill him!” A despairing shout was sud- 
denly heard somewhere very close at hand. 

A shot rang out at once. Seeing that Laevsky 
remained standing where he was and did not fall, 
they all looked in the direction from which the shout 
had come, and saw the deacon. With pale face and 
wet hair sticking to his forehead and his cheeks, wet 
through and muddy, he was standing in the maize 
on the further bank, smiling rather queerly and 
waving his wet hat. Sheshkovsky laughed with joy, 
burst into tears, and moved away... . 


The Duel 161 
dO:8 


A little while afterwards, Von Koren and the dea- 
con met near the little bridge. The deacon was 
excited; he breathed hard, and avoided looking in 
people’s faces. He felt ashamed both of his ter- 
ror and his muddy, wet garments. 

‘“‘T thought you meant to kill him . . .”’ he mut- 
tered. ‘‘ How contrary to human nature it is! 
How utterly unnatural it is!” 

“‘ But how did you come here?” asked the zoolo- 
gist. 

‘Don’t ask,” said the deacon, waving his hand. 
‘‘ The evil one tempted me, saying: ‘Go, go... .’ 
So I went and almost died of fright in the maize. 
But now, thank God, thank God. . . . I am awfully 
pleased with you,’ muttered the deacon. “ Old 
Grandad Tarantula will be glad... . It’s funny, 
it’s too funny! Only I beg of you most earnestly 
don’t tell anybody I was there, or I may get into 
hot water with the authorities. They will say: 
‘The deacon was a second.’ ””’ 

‘“* Gentlemen,” said Von Koren, “‘ the deacon asks 
you not to tell any one you’ve seen him here. He 
might get into trouble.” 

“How contrary to human nature it is!” sighed 
the deacon. ‘‘ Excuse my saying so, but your face 
was so dreadful that I thought you were going to 
kill him.” 


‘“T was very much tempted to put an end to that 


162 The Tales of Chekhov 


scoundrel,” said Von Koren, “‘ but you shouted close 
by, and I missed my aim. ‘The whole procedure 
is revolting to any one who is not used to it, and 
it has exhausted me, deacon. I feel awfully tired. 
Come along...” 

‘“No, you must let me walk back. I must get 
dry, for I am wet and cold.” 

“Well, as you like,” said the zoologist, in a weary 
tone, feeling dispirited, and, getting into the car- 
riage, he closed his eyes. ‘‘ As you like. . . .” 

While they were moving about the carriages and 
taking their seats, Kerbalay stood in the road, and, 
laying his hands on his stomach, he bowed low, 
showing his teeth; he imagined that the gentry had 
come to enjoy the beauties of nature and drink 
tea, and could not understand why they were get- 
ting into the carriages. ‘The party set off in com- 
plete silence and only the deacon was left by the 
duhan. 

“Come to the duhan, drink tea,” he said to Ker- 
balay. ‘“‘ Me wants to eat.” 

Kerbalay spoke good Russian, but the deacon im- 
agined that the Tatar would understand him better 
if he talked to him in broken Russian. ‘‘ Cook om- 
elette, give cheese. ... .”’ 

““Come, come, father,’ said Kerbalay, bowing. 
“T’ll give you everything. ... I’ve cheese and 
wine. . . . Eat what you like.” 

‘What is ‘God’ in Tatar?” asked the deacon, 
going into the duhan. 


The Duel 163 


“Your God and my God are the same,’ said 
Kerbalay, not understanding him. ‘‘ God is the 
same for all men, only men are different. Some are 
Russian, some are Turks, some are English — there 
are many sorts of men, but God is one.”’ 

“Very good. If all men worship the same God, 
why do you Mohammedans look upon Christians as 
your everlasting enemies? ” 

‘““Why are you angry?” said Kerbalay, laying 
both hands on his stomach. ‘‘ You are a priest; 
I am a Mussulman: you say, ‘I want to eat ’—I 
give it you. . . . Only the rich man distinguishes 
your God from my God; for the poor man it is all 
the same. If you please, it is ready.” 

While this theological conversation was taking 
place at the duhan, Laevsky was driving home think- 
ing how dreadful it had been driving there at day- 
break, when the roads, the rocks, and the mountains 
were wet and dark, and the uncertain future seemed 
like a terrible abyss, of which one could not see the 
bottom; while now the raindrops hanging on the 
grass and on the stones were sparkling in the sun 
like diamonds, nature was smiling joyfully, and the 
terrible future was left behind. He looked at Shesh- 
kovsky’s sullen, tear-stained face, and at the two 
carriages ahead of them in which Von Koren, his 
seconds, and the doctor were sitting, and it seemed 
~ to him as though they were all coming back from 
a graveyard in which a wearisome, insufferable man 
who was a burden to others had just been buried. 


164 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘Everything is over,” he thought of his past. 
cautiously touching his neck with his fingers. 

On the right side of his neck was a small swelling, 
of the length and breadth of his little finger, and he 
felt a pain, as though some one had passed a hot iron 
over his neck. The bullet had bruised it. 

Afterwards, when he got home, a strange, long, 
sweet day began for him, misty as forgetfulness. 
Like a man released from prison or from hospital, 
he stared at the long-familiar objects and wondered 
that the tables, the windows, the chairs, the light, 
and the sea stirred in him a keen, childish delight 
such as he had not known for long, long years. 
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, pale and haggard, could 
not understand his gentle voice and strange move- 
ments; she made haste to tell him everything that 
had happened to her. . . . It seemed to her that 
very likely he scarcely heard and did not understand 
her, and that if he did know everything he would 
curse her and kill her, but he listened to her, stroked 
her face and hair, looked into her eyes and said: 

‘“‘T have nobody but you. .. .” 

Then they sat a long while in the garden, huddled 
close together, saying nothing, or dreaming aloud 
of their happy life in the future, in brief, broken 
sentences, while it seemed to him that he had never 
spoken at such length or so eloquently. 


The Duel 165 


XXI 


More than three months had passed. 

The day came that Von Koren had fixed on for 
his departure. A cold, heavy rain had been falling 
from early morning, a north-east wind was blowing, 
and the waves were high on the sea. It was said 
that the steamer would hardly be able to come into 
the harbour in such weather. By the time-table it 
should have arrived at ten o'clock in the morning, 
but Von Koren, who had gone on to the sea-front 
at midday and again after dinner, could see nothing 
through the field-glass but grey waves and rain cover- 
ing the horizon. 

Towards the end of the day the rain ceased and 
the wind began to drop perceptibly. Von Koren 
had already made up his mind that he would not 
be able to get off that day, and had settled down 
to play chess with Samoylenko; but after dark the 
orderly announced that there were lights on the sea 
and that a rocket had been seen. 

Von Koren made haste. He put his satchel over 
his shoulder, and kissed Samoylenko and the deacon. 
Though there was not the slightest necessity, he 
went through the rooms again, said good-bye to the 
orderly and the cook, and went out into the street, 
feeling that he had left something behind, either at 
the doctor’s or his lodging. In the street he walked 
beside Samoylenko, behind them came the deacon 


166 The Tales of Chekhov 


with a box, and last of all the orderly with two 
portmanteaus. Only Samoylenko and the orderly 
could distinguish the dim lights on the sea. The 
others gazed into the darkness and saw _ noth- 
ing. The steamer had stopped a long way from the 
coast. 

‘“ Make haste, make haste,’ Von Koren hurried 
them. ‘I am afraid it will set off.” 

As they passed the little house with three win- 
dows, into which Laevsky had moved soon after the 
duel, Von Koren could not resist peeping in at the 
window. Laevsky was sitting, writing, bent over 
the table, with his back to the window. 

‘““T wonder at him!” said the zoologist softly. 
‘What a screw he has put on himself! ”’ 

‘Yes, one may well wonder,” said Samoylenko. 
“He sits from morning till night, he’s always at 
work. He works to pay off his debts. And he 
lives, brother, worse than a beggar!” 

Half a minute of silence followed. The zoolo- 
gist, the doctor, and the deacon stood at the win- 
dow and went on looking at Laevsky. 

“So he didn’t get away from here, poor fellow,” 
said Samoylenko. ‘‘Do you remember how hard 
he tried 2y 

‘Yes, he has put a screw on himself,’’ Von Ko- 
ren repeated. ‘“‘ His marriage, the way he works 
all day long for his daily bread, a new expression 
in his face, and even in his walk — it’s all so extra- 
ordinary that I don’t know what to call it.” 


The Duel 167 


The zoologist took Samoylenko’s sleeve and went 
on with emotion in his voice: 

“You tell him and his wife that when I went 
away I was full of admiration for them and wished 
them all happiness . . . and I beg him, if he can, 
not to remember evil against me. He knows me. 
He knows that if I could have foreseen this change, 
then I might have become his best friend.” 

‘Go in and say good-bye to him.” 

‘*No, that wouldn’t do.” 

“Why? God knows, perhaps you'll never see 
him again.” 

The zoologist reflected, and said: 

+ That'sstruec’ 

Samoylenko tapped softly at the window. Laev- 
sky started and looked round. 

“Vanya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say good- 
bye to you,” said Samoylenko. ‘He is just going 
away.” 

Laevsky got up from the table, and went into 
the passage to open the door. Samoylenko, the 
zoologist, and the deacon went into the house. 

‘“‘T can only come for one minute,” began the 
zoologist, taking off his goloshes in the passage, and 
already wishing he had not given way to his feelings 
and come in, uninvited. ‘‘It is as though I were 
forcing myself on him,” he thought, “‘ and that’s 
stupid.” 

‘Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said as he 
went into the room with Laevsky, “but I’m just 


168 The Tales of Chekhov 


going away, and I had an impulse to see you. God 
knows whether we shall ever meet again.” 

‘‘T am very glad to see you. . .. Please come in,” 
said Laevsky, and he awkwardly set chairs for his 
visitors as though he wanted to bar their way, and 
stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his hands. 

‘“T should have done better to have left my au- 
dience in the street,” thought Von Koren, and he 
said firmly: ‘“ Don’t remember evil against me, 
Ivan Andreitch. To forget the past is, of course, 
impossible — it is too painful, and I’ve not come 
here to apologise or to declare that I was not to 
blame. I acted sincerely, and I have not changed 
my convictions since then. . . . It is true that I see, 
to my great delight, that I was mistaken in regard to 
you, but it’s easy to make a false step even on a 
smooth road, and, in fact, it’s the natural human 
lot: if one is not mistaken in the main, one is mis- 
taken in the details. Nobody knows the real truth.” 

‘““ No, no one knows the truth,” said Laevsky. 

“Well, good-bye. . . . God give you all happi- 
ness.”’ 

Von Koren gave Laevsky his hand; the latter 
took it and bowed. 

‘“Don’t remember evil against me,” said Von 
Koren. ‘“‘ Give my greetings to your wife, and say 
I am very sorry not to say good-bye to her.” 

She is at home.” 

Laevsky went to the door of the next room, and 
said: 


The Duel 169 


“Nadya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say good- 
bye to you.” 

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna came in; she stopped near 
the doorway and looked shyly at the visitors. There 
was a look of guilt and dismay on her face, and she 
held her hands like a schoolgirl receiving a scolding. 

“I’m just going away, Nadyezhda Fyodorovna,” 
said Von Koren, ‘‘ and have come to say good-bye.” 

She held out her hand uncertainly, while Laevsky 
bowed. 

‘‘ What pitiful figures they are, though! ”’ thought 
Von Koren. “ The life they are living does not 
come easy to them. I shall be in Moscow and 
Petersburg; can I send you anything?”’ he asked. 

“Oh!” said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and she 
looked anxiously at her husband. “I don’t think 
there’s anything. . . .” 

‘“No, nothing . . .” said Laevsky, rubbing his 
hands. ‘“ Our greetings.” 

Von Koren did not know what he could or ought 
to say, though as he went in he thought he would 
say a very great deal that would be warm and good 
and important. He shook hands with Laevsky and 
his wife in silence, and left them with a depressed 
feeling. 

‘What people!” said the deacon in a low voice, 
as he walked behind them. ‘‘ My God, what peo- 
ple! Of.a truth, the right hand of God has planted 
this vine! Lord! Lord! One man vanquishes 
thousands and another tens of thousands. Nikolay 


” 


170 The Tales of Chekhov 


Vassilitch,” he said ecstatically, ‘“ let me tell you that 
to-day you have conquered the greatest of man’s ene- 
mies — pride.” 

‘Hush, deacon! Fine conquerors we are! Con- 
querors ought to look like eagles, while he’s a piti- 
ful figure, timid, crushed; he bows like a Chinese 
idol; and, J, 1 amisadsa2’ .? 

They heard steps behind them. It was Laevsky, 
hurrying after them to see him off. The orderly 
was standing on the quay with the two portmanteaus, 
and at a little distance stood four boatmen. 


‘There is a wind, though. ... Brrr!” said 
Samoylenko. ‘‘ There must be a pretty stiff storm 
on the sea now! You are not going off at a nice 
time, Koyla.” 

‘“T’m not afraid of sea-sickness.”’ 

‘““That’s not the point. . . . I only hope these 


rascals won’t upset you. You ought to have crossed 
in the agent’s sloop. Where’s the agent’s sloop?” 
he shouted to the boatmen. 

“Tt has gone, Your Excellency.” 

‘* And the Customs-house boat?” 

‘* That’s gone, too.” 

“Why didn’t you let us know,” said Samoylenko 
anorily: ~* You dolts!” 

“It’s all the same, don’t worry yourself .. . 
said Von Koren. ‘‘ Well, good-bye. God keep 
you.” 

Samoylenko embraced Von Koren and made the 
sign of the cross over him three times. 


” 


The Duel 171 


“ Don’t forget us, Kolya. . . . Write... . We 
shall look out for you next spring.” 

“Good-bye, deacon,” said Von Koren, shaking 
hands with the deacon. ‘‘ Thank you for your com- 
pany and for your pleasant conversation. Think 
about the expedition.” 

“Oh Lord, yes! to the ends of the earth,” laughed 
the deacon. ‘I’ve nothing against it.” 

Von Koren recognised Laevsky in the darkness, 
and held out his hand without speaking. The boat- 
men were by now below, holding the boat, which 
was beating against the piles, though the breakwater 
screened it from the breakers. Von Koren went 
down the ladder, jumped into the boat, and sat at 
the helm. 

‘Write! ’’ Samoylenko shouted to him. ‘‘ Take 
care of yourself.” 

‘““ No one knows the real truth,” thought Laevsky, 
turning up the collar of his coat and thrusting his 
hands into his sleeves. 

The boat turned briskly out of the harbour into 
the open sea. It vanished in the waves, but at once 
from a deep hollow glided up onto a high breaker, 
so that they could distinguish the men and even the 
oars. The boat moved three yards forward and 
was sucked two yards back. 

“Write!” shouted Samoylenko; “it’s devilish 
weather for you to go in.” 

‘“‘-Yes, no one knows the real truth . . .”’ thought 
Laevsky, looking wearily at the dark, restless sea. 


172 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘Tt flings the boat back,” he thought; ‘‘ she makes 
two steps forward and one step back; but the boat- 
men are stubborn, they work the oars unceasingly, 
and are not afraid of the high waves. ‘The boat 
goesonandon. Now she is out of sight, but in half 
an hour the boatmen will see the steamer lights dis- 
tinctly, and within an hour they will be by the 
steamer ladder. So it 1s. in life. ... . In the searcem 
for truth man makes two steps forward and one step 
back. Suffering, mistakes, and weariness of life 
thrust them back, but the thirst for truth and stub- 
born will drive them on and on. And who knows? 
Perhaps they will reach the real truth at last.” 

‘“ Go—o—od-by—e,” shouted Samoylenko. 

‘“There’s no sight or sound of them,” said the 
deacon. ‘ Good luck on the journey! ” 

It began to spot with rain. 


EXCELLENT PEOPLE 
















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EXCELLENT PEOPLE 


ONCE upon a time there lived in Moscow a man 
called Vladimir Semyonitch Liadovsky. He took 
his degree at the university in the faculty of law 
and had a post on the board of management of some 
sailway; but if you had asked him what his work 
was, he would look candidly and openly at you with 
his large bright eyes through his gold pincenez, and 
would answer in a soft, velvety, lisping baritone: 

‘““ My work is literature.” 

After completing his course at the university, 
Vladimir Semyonitch had had a paragraph of 
theatrical criticism accepted by a newspaper. From 
this paragraph he passed on to reviewing, and a 
year later he had advanced to writing a weekly arti- 
cle on literary matters for the same paper. But it 
does not follow from these facts that he was an 
amateur, that his literary work was of an ephemeral, 
haphazard character. Whenever I saw his neat 
spare figure, his high forehead and long mane of 
hair, when I listened to his speeches, it always 
seemed to me that his writing, quite apart from what 
and how he wrote, was something organically part of 
him, like the beating of his heart, and that his whole 
literary programme must have been an integral part 

175 


176 The Tales of Chekhov 


of his brain while he was a baby in his mother’s 
womb. Even in his walk, his gestures, his manner 
of shaking off the ash from his cigarette, I could 
read this whole programme from A to Z, with all 
its claptrap, dulness, and honourable sentiments. 
He was a literary man all over when with an in- 
spired face he laid a wreath on the coffin of some 
celebrity, or with a grave and solemn face collected 
signatures for some address; his passion for making 
the acquaintance of distinguished literary men, his 
faculty for finding talent even where it was absent, 
his perpetual enthusiasm, his pulse that went at one 
hundred and twenty a minute, his ignorance of life, 
the genuinely feminine flutter with which he threw 
himself into concerts and literary evenings for the 
benefit of destitute students, the way in which he 
gravitated towards the young — all this would have 
created for him the reputation of a writer even if he 
had not written his articles. 

He was one of those writers to whom phrases 
like, ‘‘ We are but few,” or ‘‘ What would life be 
without strife? Forward!” were pre-eminently be- 
coming, though he never strove with any one and 
never did go forward. It did not even sound mawk- 
ish when he fell to discoursing of ideals. Every an- 
niversary of the university, on St. Tatiana’s Day, 
he got drunk, chanted Gaudeamus out of tune, and 
his beaming and perspiring countenance seemed to 
say: “See, I’m drunk; I’m keeping it up!” But 
even that suited him. 


Meh 


Excellent People 177 


Vladimir Semyonitch had genuine faith in his lit- 
erary vocation and his whole programme. He had 
no doubts, and was evidently very well pleased with 
himself. Only one thing grieved him — the paper 
for which he worked had a limited circulation and 
was not very influential. But Vladimir Semyonitch 
believed that sooner or later he would succeed in 
getting on to a solid magazine where he would have 
scope and could display himself — and what little 
distress he felt on this score was pale beside the bril- 
liance of his hopes. 

Visiting this charming man, I made the acquaint- 
ance of his sister, Vera Semyonoyna, a woman doc- 
tor. At first sight, what struck me about this 
woman was her look of exhaustion and extreme ill- 
health. She was young, with a good figure and reg- 
ular, rather large features, but in comparison with 
her agile, elegant, and talkative brother she seemed 
angular, listless, slovenly, and sullen. There was 
something strained, cold, apathetic in her move- 
ments, smiles, and words; she was not liked, and was 
thought proud and not very intelligent. 

In reality, I fancy, she was resting. 

‘* My dear friend,” her brother would often say 
to me, sighing and flinging back his hair in his pic- 
turesque literary way, “one must never judge by 
appearances! Look at this book: it has long ago 
been read. It is warped, tattered, and lies in the 
dust uncared for; but open it, and it will make you 
weep and turn pale. My sister is like that book. 


Lis i 


178 The Tales of Chekhoy 


Lift the cover and peep into her soul, and you will 
be horror-stricken. Vera passed in some three 
months through experiences that would have been 
ample for a whole lifetime! ” 

Vladimir Semyonitch looked round him, took me 
by the sleeve, and began to whisper: 

“You know, after taking her degree she married, 
for love, an architect. It’s a complete tragedy! 
They had hardly been married a month when — 
whew —her kusband died of typhus. But that 
was not all. She caught typhus from him, and 
when, on her recovery, she learnt that her Ivan was 
dead, she took a good dose of morphia. If it had 
not been for vigorous measures taken by her friends, 
my Vera would have been by now in Paradise. Tell 
me, isn’t it a tragedy? And is not my sister like an 
ingénue, who has played already all the five acts of 
her life? The audience may stay for the farce, but 
the ingénue must go home to rest.” 

After three months of misery Vera Semyonovna 
had come to live with her brother. She was not 
fitted for the practice of medicine, which exhausted 
her and did not satisfy her; she did not give one the 
impression of knogying her subject, and I never once 
heard her say anything referring to her medical 
studies. 

She gave up medicine, and, silent and unoccupied, 
as though she were a prisoner, spent the remainder 
of her youth in colourless apathy, with bowed head 





Excellent People 179 


and hanging hands. The only thing to which she 
was not completely indifferent, and which brought 
some brightness into the twilight of her life, was the 
presence of her brother, whom she loved. She 
loved him himself and his programme, she was full 
of reverence for his articles; and when she was asked 
what her brother was doing, she would answer in a 
subdued voice as though afraid of waking or dis- 
tracting him: “ He is writing. . . .”’. Usually when 
he was at his work she used to sit beside him, her 
eyes fixed on his writing hand. She used at such 
moments to look like a sick animal warming itself in 
the sun... 

One winter evening Vladimir Semyonitch was sit- 
ting at his table writing a critical article for his 
newspaper: Vera Semyonovna was sitting beside 
him, staring as usual at his writing hand. The 
critic wrote rapidly, without erasures or corrections. 
The pen scratched and squeaked. On the table near 
the writing hand there lay open a freshly-cut volume 
of a thick magazine, containing a story of peasant 
life, signed with two initials. Vladimir Semyonitch 
was enthusiastic; he thought the author was admir- 
able in his handling of the subjeet, suggested Tur- 
genev in his descriptions of nature, was truthful, 
and had an excellent knowledge of the life of the 
peasantry. The critic himself knew nothing of peas- 
ant life except from books and hearsay, but his feel- 
ings and his inner convictions forced him to believe 


180 The Tales of Chekhov 


the story. He foretold a brilliant future for the 
author, assured him he should await the conclusion 
of the story with great impatience, and so on. 

‘Fine story!’ he said, flinging himself back in 
his chair and closing his eyes with pleasure. ‘‘ The 
tone is extremely good.” 

Vera Semyonovna looked at him, yawned aloud, 
and suddenly asked an unexpected question. In 
the evening she had a habit of yawning nervously 
and asking short, abrupt questions, not always rele- 
vant. 

‘“‘ Volodya,” she asked, ‘‘ what is the meaning of 
non-resistance to evil?” 

‘““Non-resistance to evil!’ repeated her brother, 
opening his eyes. 

“Yes. What do you understand by it?” 

‘““'You see, my dear, imagine that thieves or brig- 
ands attack you, and you, instead of .. .” 

“No, give me a logical definition.” 

“A logical definition? Um! Well.” Vladimir 
Semyonitch pondered. ‘‘ Non-resistance to evil 
means an attitude of non-interference with regard 
to all that in the sphere of mortality is called evil.” 

Saying this, Vladimir Semyonitch bent over the 
table and took up a novel. This novel, written by 
a woman, dealt with the painfulness of the irregular 
position of a society lady who was living under the 
same roof with her lover and her illegitimate child. 
_ Vladimir Semyonitch was pleased with the excellent 
tendency of the story, the plot and the presentation 


Excellent People 181 


of it. Making a brief summary of the novel, he 
selected the best passages and added to them in his 
account: ‘‘ How true to reality, how living, how pic- 
turesque! The author is not merely an artist; he is 
also a subtle psychologist who can see into the hearts 
of his characters. Take, for example, this vivid de- 
scription of the emotions of the heroine on meeting 
her husband,” and so on. 

‘Volodya,”’ Vera Semyonoyna interrupted his 
critical effusions, “ I’ve been haunted by a strange 
idea since yesterday. I keep wondering where we 
should all be if human life were ordered on the basis 
of non-resistance to evil?” 

‘In all probability, nowhere. Non-resistance to 
evil would give the full rein to the criminal will, 
and, to say nothing of civilisation, this would leave 
not one stone standing upon another anywhere on 
Gagihe. 

‘“‘ What would be left?” 

‘“‘ Bashi-Bazouke and brothels. In my next arti- 
cle I’ll talk about that perhaps. Thank you for 
reminding me.” 

And a week later my friend kept his promise. 
That was just at the period—#in the eighties — 
when people were beginning to talk and write of 
non-resistance, of the right to judge, to punish, to 
make war; when some people in our set were begin- 
ning to do without servants, to retire into the coun- 
try, to work on the land, and to renounce animal 
food and carnal love. 


182 The Tales of Chekhov 


After reading her brother’s article, Vera Semyo- 
novna pondered and hardly perceptibly shrugged her 
shoulders. 

“Very nice!” she said. “But still there’s a 
great deal I don’t understand. For instance, in Les- 
kov’s story ‘ Belonging to the Cathedral’ there is 
a queer gardener who sows for the benefit of all — 
for customers, for beggars, and any who care to 
steal. Did he behave sensibly? ” 

From his sister’s tone and expression Vladimir 
Semyonitch saw that she did not like his article, and, 
almost for the first time in his life, his vanity as an 
author sustained a shock. With a shade of irrita- 
tion he answered: 

“Theft is immoral. To sow for thieves is to 
recognise the right of thieves to existence. What 
would you think if I were to establish a newspaper 
and, dividing it into sections, provide for blackmail- 
ing as well as for liberal ideas? ~Following the ex- 
ample of that gardener, I ought, logically, to pro- 
vide a section for blackmailers, the intellectual 
scoundrels? Yes.” 

Vera Semyonovna made no answer. She got up 
from the table, moved languidly to the sofa and lay 
down. 

‘“T don’t know, I know nothing about it,” she said 
musingly. ‘“ You are probably right, but it seems 
to me, I feel somehow, that there’s something false 
in our resistance to evil, as though there were some- 
thing concealed or unsaid. God knows, perhaps our 


Excellent People 183 


methods of resisting evil belong to the category of 
prejudices which have become so deeply rooted in 
us, that we are incapable of parting with them, and 
therefore cannot form a correct judgment of them.” 

““ How do you mean? ”’ 

‘“T don’t know how to explain to you. Perhaps 
man is mistaken in thinking that he is obliged to 
resist evil and has a right to do so, just as he is 
mistaken in thinking, for instance, that the heart 
looks like an ace of hearts. It is very possible in 
resisting evil we ought not to use force, but to use 
what is the very opposite of force —if you, for in- 
stance, don’t want this picture stolen from you, you 
ought to give it away rather than lock it up... .” 

‘* That’s clever, very clever! If I want to marry 
a rich, vulgar woman, she ought to prevent me from 
such a shabby action by hastening to make me an 
offer herself! ” 

The brother and sister talked till midnight with- 
out understanding each other. If any outsider had 
overheard them he would hardly have been able to 
make out what either of them was driving at. 

They usually spent the evening at home. ‘There 
were no friends’ houses to which they could go, and 
they felt no need for friends; they only went to the 
theatre when there was a new play — such was the 
custom in literary circles — they did not go to con- 
certs, for they did not care for music. 

““You may think what you like,” Vera Semyo- 
noyna began again the next day, “ but for me the 


184 The Tales of Chekhov 


question is to a great extent settled. I am firmly 
convinced that I have no grounds for resisting evil 
directed against me personally. If they want to kill 
me, let them. My defending myself will not make 
the murderer better. All I have now to decide is 
the second half of the question: how I ought to be- 
have to evil directed against my neighbours? ” 

‘Vera, mind you don’t become rabid! ” said Vlad- 
imir Semyonitch, laughing. ‘I see non-resistance 
is becoming your idée fixe!” 

He wanted to turn off these tedious conversations 
with a jest, but somehow it was beyond a jest; his 
smile was artificial and sour. His sister gave up sit- 
ting beside his table and gazing reverently at his 
writing hand, and he felt every evening that behind 
him on the sofa lay a person who did not agree with 
him. And his back grew stiff and numb, and there 
was a chill in his soul. An author’s vanity is vin- 
dictive, implacable, incapable of forgiveness, and his 
sister was the first and only person who had laid 
bare and disturbed that uneasy feeling, which is like 
a big box of crockery, easy to unpack but impossible 
to pack up again as it was before. 

Weeks and months passed by, and his sister clung 
to her ideas, and did not sit down by the table. 
One spring evening Vladimir Semyonitch was sitting 
at his table writing an article. He was reviewing 
a novel which described how a village schoolmistress 
refused the man whom she loved and who loved her, 
a man both wealthy and intellectual, simply because 


Excellent People 185 


marriage made her work as a schoolmistress impos- 
sible. Vera Semyonovna lay on the sofa and 
brooded. 

‘“ My God, how slow it is!’ she said, stretching. 
“How insipid and empty life is! I don’t know 
what to do with myself, and you are wasting your 
best years in goodness knows what. Like some al- 
chemist, you are rummaging in old rubbish that no- 
body wants. My God!” 

Vladimir Semyonitch dropped his pen and slowly 
looked round at his sister. 

_ “Tt’s depressing to look at you!” said his sister. 
‘Wagner in ‘ Faust’ dug up worms, but he was 
looking for a treasure, anyway, and you are looking 
for worms for the sake of the worms.” 

“That’s vague!” 

“Yes, Volodya; all these days I’ve been thinking, 
I’ve been thinking painfully for a long time, and I 
have come to the conclusion that you are hopelessly 
reactionary and conventional. Come, ask yourself 
what is the object of your zealous, conscientious 
work? ‘Tell me, what is it? Why, everything has 
long ago been extracted that can be extracted from 
that rubbish in which you are always rummaging. 
You may pound water in a mortar and analyse it as 
long as you like, you’ll make nothing more of it than 
the chemists have made already. . . .” 

“Indeed! ”’ drawled Vladimir Semyonitch, getting 
up.. “ Yes, all this is old rubbish because these ideas 
are eternal; but what do you consider new, then?” 


186 The Tales of Chekhov 


“You undertake to work in the domain of 
thought; it is for you to think of something new. 
It’s not for me to teach you.” 

‘““ Me — an alchemist! ”’ the critic cried in wonder 
and indignation, screwing up his eyes ironically. 
‘““ Art, progress — all that is alchemy?” 

‘““You see, Volodya, it seems to me that if all you 
thinking people had set yourselves to solving great 
problems, all these little questions that you fuss 
about now would solve themselves by the way. If 
you go up in a balloon to see a town, you will inci- 
dentally, without any effort, see the fields and the 
villages and the rivers as well. When stearine is 
manufactured, you get glycerine as a by-product. It 
seems to me that contemporary thought has settled 
on one spot and stuck to it. It is prejudiced, apa- 
thetic, timid, afraid to take a wide titanic flight, just 
as you and J are afraid to climb on a high mountain; 
it is conservative.” 

Such conversations could not but leave traces. 
The relations of the brother and sister grew more 
and more strained every day. The brother became 
unable to work in his sister’s presence, and grew 
irritable when he knew his sister was lying on the 
sofa, looking at his back; while the sister frowned 
nervously and stretched when, trying to bring back 
the past, he attempted to share his enthusiasms 
with her. Every evening she complained of being 
bored, and talked about independence of mind and 
those who are in the rut of tradition. Carried 


Excellent People 187 


away by her new ideas, Vera Semyonoyna proved 
that the work that her brother was so engrossed in 
was conventional, that it was a vain effort of conser- 
vative minds to preserve what had already served 
its turn and was vanishing from the scene of action. 
She made no end of comparisons. She compared 
her brother at one time to an alchemist, then to a 
musty old Believer who would sooner die than listen 
to reason. By degrees there was a perceptible 
change in her manner of life, too. She was capable 
of lying on the sofa all day long doing nothing but 
think, while her face wore a cold, dry expression 
such as one sees in one-sided people of strong faith. 
She began to refuse the attentions of the servants, 
swept and tidied her own room, cleaned her own 
boots and brushed her own clothes. Her brother 
could not help looking with irritation and even ha- 
tred at her cold face when she went about her menial 
work. In that work, which was always performed 
with a certain solemnity, he saw something strained 
and false, he saw something both pharisaical and 
affected. And knowing he could not touch her by 
persuasion, he carped at her and teased her like a 


schoolboy. 
‘You won't resist evil, but you resist my having 
servants!’’ he taunted her. ‘‘If servants are an 


evil, why do you oppose it? ‘That’s inconsistent! ”’ 

He suffered, was indignant and even ashamed. 
He felt ashamed when his sister began doing odd 
things before strangers. 


188 The Tales of Chekhov 


“It’s awful, my dear fellow,’ he said to me in 
private, waving his hands in despair. ‘It seems 
that our ingénue has remained to play a part in 
the farce, too. She’s become morbid to the marrow 
of her bones! I’ve washed my hands of her, let 
her think as she likes; but why does she talk, why 
does she excite me? She ought to think what it 
means for me to listen to her. What I feel when in 
my presence she has the effrontery to support her 
errors by blasphemously quoting the teaching of 
Christ! It chokes me! It makes me hot all over 
to hear my sister propounding her doctrines and try- 
ing to distort the Gospel to suit her, when she pur- 
posely refrains from mentioning how the money- 
changers were driven out of the Temple. That’s, 
my dear fellow, what comes of being half educated, 
undeveloped! ‘That’s what comes of medical stud- 
ies which provide no general culture! ” 

One day on coming home from the office, Vladimir 
Semyonitch found his sister crying. She was sit- 
ting on the sofa with her head bowed, wringing her 
hands, and tears were flowing freely down her 
cheeks. The critic’s good heart throbbed with pain. 
Tears fell from his eyes, too, and he longed to pet 
his sister, to forgive her, to beg her forgiveness, 
and ‘to: livenasxthey used: to before. .2 J Ide karele 
down and kissed her head, her hands, her shoulders. 
. .. She smiled, smiled bitterly, unaccountably, 
while he with a cry of joy jumped up, seized the mag- 
azine from the table and said warmly: 


Excellent People 189 


“Hurrah! We'll live as we used to, Verotchka! 
With God’s blessing! And I’ve such a surprise for 
you here! Instead of celebrating the occasion with 
champagne, let us read it together! A splendid, 
wonderful thing! ”’ 

“Oh, no, no!”’ cried Vera Semyonovna, pushing 
away the book in alarm. “I’ve read it already! 
I don’t want it, I don’t want it! ”’ 

“When did you read it?” 

cus year .=-.-two years’ ago. \. 7. fOR read. at 
long ago, and I know it, I know it!” 

Em lee 22. You're’ a) fanatic!’ her brother 
said coldly, flinging the magazine on to the table. 

“No, your are a fanatic, not I! You!” And 
Vera Semyonovna dissolved into tears again. Her 
brother stood before her, looked at her quivering 
shoulders, and thought. He thought, not of the 
agonies of loneliness endured by any one who begins 
to think in a new way of their own, not of the 
inevitable sufferings of a genuine spiritual revolu- 
tion, but of the outrage of his programme, the out- 
rage to his author’s vanity. 

From this time he treated his sister coldly, with 
careless irony, and he endured her presence in the 
room as one endures the presence of old women that 
are dependent on one. For her part, she left off 
disputing with him and met all his arguments, jeers, 
and attacks with a condescending silence which irri- 
tated him more than ever. 

One summer morning Vera Semyonovna, dressed 


190 The Tales of Chekhov 


for travelling with a satchel over her shoulder, went 
in to her brother and coldly kissed him on the fore- 
head. 

‘Where are you going?” he asked with surprise. 

“To the province of N. to do vaccination work.” 
Her brother went out into the street with her. 

‘‘ So that’s what you’ve decided upon, you queer 
girl,” he muttered: ,“.Don‘t,|, you: swant 4s seme 
money?” 

‘No, thank you. Good-bye.” 

The sister shook her brother’s hand and set off. 

‘““ Why don’t you have a cab?” cried Vladimir 
Semyonitch. 

She did not answer. Her brother gazed after 
her, watched her rusty-looking waterproof, the sway- 
ing of her figure as she slouched along, forced him- 
self to sigh, but did not succeed in rousing a feeling 
of regret. His sister had become a stranger to him. 
And he was a stranger to her. Anyway, she did not 
once look round. 

Going back to his room, Vladimir Semyonitch at 
once sat down to the table and began to work at 
his article. 

I never saw Vera Semyonoyna again. Where 
she is now I do not know. And Vladimir Semyo- 
nitch went on writing his articles, laying wreaths on 
coffins, singing Gaudeamus, busying himself over the 
Mutual Aid Society of Moscow Journalists. 

He fell ill with inflammation of the lungs; he was 
ill in bed for three months — at first at home, and 


Excellent People 191 


afterwards in the Golitsyn Hospital. An abscess 
developed in his knee. People said he ought to be 
sent to the Crimea, and began getting up a collection 
for him. But he did not go to the Crimea — he 
died. We buried him in the Vagankovsky Ceme- 
tery, on the left side, where artists and literary men 
are buried. 

One day we writers were sitting in the Tatars’ 
restaurant. I mentioned that I had lately been in 
the Vagankovsky Cemetery and had seen Vladimir 
Semyonitch’s grave there. It was utterly neglected 
and almost indistinguishable from the rest of the 
ground, the cross had fallen; it was necessary to 
collect a few roubles to put it in order. 

But they listened to what I said unconcernedly, 
made no answer, and I could not collect a farthing. 
No one remembered Vladimir Semyonitch. He was 
utterly forgotten. 












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GRACEFULLY swaying in the saddle, a young man 
wearing the snow-white tunic of an officer rode into 
the great yard of the vodka distillery belonging to 
the heirs of M. E. Rothstein. The sun smiled care- 
lessly on the lieutenant’s little stars, on the white 
trunks of the birch-trees, on the heaps of broken 
glass scattered here and there in the yard. The 
radiant, vigorous beauty of a summer day lay over 
everything, and nothing hindered the snappy young 
green leaves from dancing gaily and winking at the 
clear blue sky. Even the dirty and soot-begrimed 
appearance of the bricksheds and the stifling fumes 
of the distillery did not spoil the general good im- 
pression. ‘The lieutenant sprang gaily out of the 
saddle, handed over his horse to a man who ran up, 
and stroking with his finger his delicate black mous- 
taches, went in at the front door. On the top step 
of the old but light and softly carpeted staircase he 
was met by a maidservant with a haughty, not very 
youthful face. The lieutenant gave her his card 
without speaking. 

As she went through the rooms with the card, 
the maid could see on it the name “‘ Alexandr Gri- 

195 


190 The Tales of Chekhov 


goryevitch Sokolsky.”’ A minute later she came 
back and told the lieutenant that her mistress could 
not see him, as she was not feeling quite well. So- 
kolsky looked at the ceiling and thrust out his lower 
lip. 

‘“ How vexatious!’ he said. ‘“‘ Listen, my dear,” 
he said eagerly. ‘Go and tell Susanna Moisey- 
evna, that it is very necessary for me to speak to 
her—very. Iwill only keep her one minute. Ask 
her to excuse me.” 

The maid shrugged one shoulder and went off 
languidly to her mistress. 

“Very well!” she sighed, returning after a brief 
interval. ‘‘ Please walk in!” 

The lieutenant went with her through five or six 
large, luxuriously furnished rooms and a corridor, 
and finally found himself in a large and lofty square 
room, in which from the first step he was impressed 
by the abundance of flowers and plants and the sweet, 
almost revoltingly heavy fragrance of jasmine. 
Flowers were trained to trellis-work along the walls, 
screening the windows, hung from the ceiling, and 
were wreathed over the corners, so that the room 
was more like a greenhouse than a place to live in. 
Tits, canaries, and goldfinches chirruped among the 
green leaves and fluttered against the window-panes. 

‘Forgive me for receiving you here,’ the lieu- 
tenant heard in a mellow feminine voice with a burr 
on the letter r which was not without charm. “ Yes- 
terday I had a sick headache, and I’m trying to keep 


Mire 197 


still to prevent its coming on again. What do you 
want?” 

Exactly opposite the entrance, he saw sitting in 
a big low chair, such as old men use, a woman in 
an expensive Chinese dressing-gown, with her head 
wrapped up, leaning back on a pillow. Nothing 
could be seen behind the woollen shawl in which she 
was muffled but a pale, long, pointed, somewhat 
aquiline nose, and one large dark eye. Her ample 
dressing-gown concealed her figure, but judging 
from her beautiful hand, from her voice, her nose, 
and her eye, she might be twenty-six or twenty-eight. 

‘“‘ Forgive me for being so persistent . . .” began 
the lieutenant, clinking his spurs. ‘“‘ Allow me to 
introduce myself: Sokolsky! I come with a mes- 
sage from my cousin, your neighbour, Alexey Ivan- 
ovitch Kryukov, who...” 

‘““T know!” interposed Susanna Moiseyevna. “I 
know Kryukov. Sit down; I don’t like anything big 
standing before me.” 

‘‘ My cousin charges me to ask you a favour,’’ the 
lieutenant went on, clinking his spurs once more and 
sitting down. ‘‘ The fact is, your late father made 
a purchase of oats from my cousin last winter, and 
a small sum was left owing. The payment only be- 
comes due next week, but my cousin begs you most 
particularly to pay him —if possible, to-day.” 

As the lieutenant talked, he stole side-glances 
about him. 

‘Surely I’m not in her bedroom?” he thought. 


198 The Tales of Chekhov 


In one corner of the room, where the foliage was 
thickest and tallest, under a pink awning like a fun- 
eral canopy, stood a bed not yet made, with the bed- 
clothes still in disorder. Close by on two arm- 
chairs lay heaps of crumpled feminine garments. 
Petticoats and sleeves with rumpled lace and flounces 
were trailing on the carpet, on which here and there 
lay bits of white tape, cigarette-ends, and the papers 
of caramels. . . . Under the bed the toes, pointed 
and square, of slippers of all kinds peeped out in a 
long row. And it seemed to the lieutenant that the 
scent of the jasmine came not from the flowers, but 
from the bed and the slippers. 

‘“ And what is the sum owing?”’ asked Susanna 
Moiseyevna. 

“Two thousand three hundred.” 

‘““Oho!”’ said the Jewess, showing another large 
black eye. ‘‘ And you call that—a small sum! 
However, it’s just the same paying it to-day or pay- 
ing it in a week, but I’ve had so many payments to 
make in the last two months since my father’s 
death. . . . Such a lot of stupid business, it makes 
my head go round! A nice idea! I want to go 
abroad, and they keep forcing me to attend to these 
silly things. Vodka, oats . . .”’ she muttered, half 
closing her eyes, “‘ oats, bills, percentages, or, as my 
head-clerk says, ‘ percentage.’ . . . It’s awful. Yes- 
terday I simply turned the excise officer out. He 
pesters me with his Tralles. I said to him: ‘Go to 
the devil with your Tralles! I can’t see any one!’ 


Mire 199 


He kissed my hand and went away. I tell you what: 
can’t your cousin wait two or three months?” 

‘“A cruel question!’’ laughed the lieutenant. 
*“ My cousin can wait a year, but it’s I who cannot 
wait! You see, it’s on my own account I’m acting, 
I ought to tell you. At all costs I must have money, 
and by ill-luck my cousin hasn’t a rouble to spare. 
I’m forced to ride about and collect debts. I’ve just 
been to see a peasant, our tenant; here I’m now call- 
ing on you; from here I shall go on to somewhere 
else, and keep on like that until I get together five 
thousand roubles. JI need money awfully!” 

“Nonsense! What does a young man want with 
money? Whims, mischief. Why, have you been 
going in for dissipation? Or losing at cards? Or 
are you getting married?” 

‘““You’ve guessed!” laughed the lieutenant, and 
rising slightly from his seat, he clinked his spurs. 
‘“‘T really am going to be married.” 

Susanna Moiseyevna looked intently at her visitor, 
made a wry face, and sighed. 

‘““T can’t make out what possesses people to get 
married!” she said, looking about her for her poc- 
ket-handkerchief. ‘‘ Life is so short, one has so 
little freedom, and they must put chains on them- 
selves!” 

“Every one has his own way of looking at 
things. 3s 1,02"? 

‘Yes, yes, of course; every one has his own way 
of looking at things. . . . But, I say, are you really 


200 The Tales of Chekhov 


going to marry some one poor? Are you passion- 
ately in love? And why must you have five thou- 
sand? Why won’t four do, or three?” 

‘What a tongue she has!” thought the lieuten- 
ant, and answered: “ The difficulty is that an officer 
is not allowed by law to marry till he is twenty- 
eight; if you choose to marry, you have to leave the 
Service or else pay a deposit of five thousand.” 

‘Ah, now I understand. Listen. You said just 
now that every one has his own way of looking at 
things. . . . Perhaps your fiancée is some one spe- 
cial and remarkable, but . . . but I am utterly un- 
able to understand how any decent man can live with 
a woman. I can’t for the life of me understand it. 
I have lived, thank the Lord, twenty-seven years, 
and I have never yet seen an endurable woman. 
They’re all affected minxes, immoral, liars... . 
The only ones I can put up with are cooks and house- 
maids, but so-called ladies I won’t let come within 
shooting distance of me. But, thank God, they hate 
me and don’t force themselves on me! If one of 
them wants money she sends her husband, but noth- 
ing will induce her to come herself, not from pride 
—no, but from cowardice; she’s afraid of my mak- 
ing a scene. Oh, I understand their hatred very 
well! Rather! I openly display what they do their 
very utmost to conceal from God and man. How 
can they help hating me? No doubt you've heard 
bushels of scandal about me already. . . .” 

‘I only arrived here so lately . . .” 


Mire 201 


“Tut, tut, tut! . . . I see from your eyes! But 
your brother’s wife, surely she primed you for this 
expedition? Think of letting a young man come to 
see such an awful woman without warning him — 
how could she? Ha, ha! .. . But tell me, how is 
your brother? He’s a fine fellow, such a handsome 
man! ... I’ve seen him several times at mass. 
Why do you look at me like that? I very often go 
to church! We all have the same God. To an 
educated person externals matter less than the idea. 
ae ot oehat’ sisos isn tite,” 

“Yes, of course . . .”’ smiled the lieutenant. 

“Yes, the idea. . . . But you are not a bit like 
your brother. You are handsome, too, but your 
brother is a great deal better-looking. There’s won- 
derfully little likeness! ”’ 

‘“That’s quite natural; he’s not my brother, but 
my cousin.” 

““ Ah, to be sure! So you must have the money 
to-day? Why to-day?” 

“My furlough is over in a few days.” 

‘Well, what’s to be done with you!’’ sighed 
Susanna Moiseyevna. “So be it. I'll give you the 
money, though I know you'll abuse me for it after- 
wards. You'll quarrel with your wife after you are 
married, and say: ‘If that mangy Jewess hadn’t 
given me the money, I should perhaps have been as 
free asa bird to-day!’ Is your fiancée pretty?” 

> Ghsyes.aw Ybu 

“F?m! .. . Anyway, better something, if it’s 


202 The Tales of Chekhov 


only beauty, than nothing. Though however beau- 
tiful a woman is, it can never make up to her hus- 
band for her silliness.” - 

‘“That’s original!” laughed the lieutenant. 
‘“You are a woman yourself, and such a woman- 
hater yy 

‘“A woman...” smiled Susanna. “It’s not 
my fault that God has cast me into this mould, is it? 
I’m no more to blame for it than you are for having 
moustaches. The violin is not responsible for the 
cheice of its case. I am very fond of myself, but 
when any one reminds me that I am a woman, I be- 
gin to hate myself. Well, you can go away, and I'll 
dress. Wait for me in the drawing-room.” 

(Che lieutenant went out, and the first thing he did 
was to draw a deep breath, to get rid of the heavy 
scent of jasmine, which had begun to irritate his 
throat and to make him feel giddy. 

‘‘ What a strange woman!” he thought, looking 
about him. “She talks fluently, but . . . far too 
much, and too freely. She must be neurotic.” 

The drawing-room, in which he was standing now, 
was richly furnished, and had pretensions to luxury 
and style. There were dark bronze dishes with pat- 
terns in relief, views of Nice and the Rhine on the 
tables, old-fashioned sconces, Japanese statuettes, 
but all this striving after luxury and style only em- 
phasised the lack of taste which was glaringly ap- 
parent in the gilt cornices, the gaudy wall-paper, the 
bright velvet table-cloths, the common oleographs in 


9 


Mire 203 


heavy frames. The bad taste of the general effect 
was the more complete from the lack of finish and 
the overcrowding of the room, which gave one a 
feeling that something was lacking, and that a great 
deal should have been thrown away. It was evident 
that the furniture had not been bought all at once, 
but had been picked up at auctions and other favour- 
able opportunities. 

Heaven knows what taste the lieutenant could 
boast of, but even he noticed one characteristic pe- 
culiarity about the whole place, which no luxury or 
style could efface — a complete absence of all trace 
of womanly, careful hands, which, as we all know, 
give a warmth, poetry, and snugness to the furnish- 
ing of aroom. ‘There was a chilliness about it such 
as one finds in waiting-rooms at stations, in clubs, 
and foyers at the theatres. 

(here was scarcely anything in the room definitely 
Jewish, except, perhaps, a big picture of the meet- 
ing of Jacob and Esau. The lieutenant looked 
round about him, and, shrugging his shoulders, 
thought of his strange, new acquaintance, of her 
free-and-easy manners, and her way of talking. But 
then the door opened, and in the doorway appeared 
the lady herself, in a long black dress, so slim and 
tightly laced that her figure looked as though it had 
been turned in a lathe. Now the lieutenant saw not 
only the nose and eyes, but also a thin white face, 
a head black and as curly as lamb’s-wool. She did 
not attract him, though she did not strike him as 


204 The Tales of Chekhov 


ugly. He had a prejudice against un-Russian faces 
in general, and he considered, too, that the lady’s 
white face, the whiteness of which for some reason 
suggested the cloying scent of jasmine, did not go 
well with her little black curls and thick eyebrows; 
that her nose and ears were astoundingly white, as 
though they belonged to a corpse, or had been 
moulded out of transparent wax. When she smiled 
she showed pale gums as well as her teeth, and he 
did not like that either. 

‘““ Anemic debility . . .”” he thought; “ she’s prob- 
ably as nervous as a turkey.” 

“Here lam! Come along!” she said, going on 
rapidly ahead of him and pulling off the yellow 
leaves from the plants as she passed. 

‘“‘T'll give you the money directly, and if you like 
I'll give you some lunch. ‘Two thousand three hun- 
dred roubles! After such a good stroke of busi- 
ness you'll have an appetite for your lunch. Do you 
like my rooms? ‘The ladies about here declare that 
my rooms always smell of garlic. With that culi- 
nary gibe their stock of wit is exhausted. I hasten 
to assure you that I’ve no garlic even in the cellar. 
And one day when a doctor came to see me who 
smelt of garlic, I asked him to take his hat and go 
and spread his fragrance elsewhere. ‘There is no 
smell of garlic here, but the place does smell of drugs. 
My father lay paralyzed for a year and a half, and 
the whole house smelt of medicine. A year and a 


Mire 205 


half! I was sorry to lose him, but I’m glad he’s 
dead: he suffered so! ” 

She led the officer through two rooms similar to 
the drawing-room, through a large reception hall, 
and came to a stop in her study, where there was a 
lady’s writing-table covered with little knick-knacks. 
On the carpet near it several books lay strewn about, 
opened and folded back. Through a small door 
leading from the study he saw a table laid for lunch. 

Still chatting, Susanna took out of her pocket a 
bunch of little keys and unlocked an ingeniously 
made cupboard with a curved, sloping lid. When 
the lid was raised the cupboard emitted a plaintive 
note which made the lieutenant think of an A®olian 
harp. Susanna picked out another key and clicked 
another lock. 

‘IT have underground passages here and secret 
doors,” she said, taking out a small morocco port- 
folio. “It’s a funny cupboard, isn’t it? And in 
this portfolio I have a quarter of my fortune. Look 
how podgy it is! You won't strangle me, will 
you?” 

Susanna raised her eyes to the lieutenant and 
laughed good-naturedly. The lieutenant laughed 
too. 

‘““She’s rather jolly,” he thought, watching the 
keys flashing between her fingers. 

“Here it is,” she said, picking out the key of the 
portfolio. ‘‘ Now, Mr. Creditor, trot out the IOU. 


206 The Tales of Chekhov 


What a silly thing money is really! How paltry it 
is, and yet how women love it! I am a Jewess, 
you know, to the marrow of my bones. I am pas- 
sionately fond of Shmuls and Yankels, but how I 
loathe that passion for gain in our Semitic blood. 
They hoard and they don’t know what they are 
hoarding for. One ought to live and enjoy oneself, 
but they’re afraid of spending an extra farthing. 
In that way I am more like an hussar than a Shmul. 
I don’t like money to be kept long in one place. And 
altogether I fancy I’m not much like a Jewess. 
Does my accent give me away much, eh?” 

‘What shall I say?’’ mumbled the lieutenant. 
“You speak good Russian, but you do roll your rs.” 

Susanna laughed and put the little key in the lock 
of the portfolio. The lieutenant took out of his 
pocket a little roll of IOUs and laid them with a 
notebook on the table. 

‘“ Nothing betrays a Jew as much as his accent,” 
Susanna went on, looking gaily at the lieutenant. 
‘* However much he twists himself into a Russian or 
a Frenchman, ask him to say ‘ feather’ and he will 
say ‘fedder’ ... but I pronounce’ it correctly: 
‘Heather leather!’ feather! %.?? 

Both laughed. 

‘“ By Jove, she’s very jolly!” thought Sokolsky. 

Susanna put the portfolio on a chair, took a step 
towards the lieutenant, and bringing her face close 
to his, went on gaily: 

“Next to the Jews I love no people so much as 


Mire 207 


the Russian and the French. I did not do much at 
school and I know no history, but it seems to me 
that the fate of the world lies in the hands of those 
two nations. I lived a long time abroad... . I 
spent six months in Madrid... . I’ve gazed my 
fill at the public, and the conclusion I’ve come to 
is that there are no decent peoples except the Russian 
and the French. ‘Take the languages, for instance. 
. .. The German language is like the neighing 
of horses; as for the English . . . you can’t im- 
agine anything stupider. Fight — feet — foot! 
Italian is only pleasant when they speak it slowly. 
If you listen to Italians gabbling, you get the effect 
of the Jewish jargon. And the Poles? Mercy on 
us! There’s no language so disgusting! ‘Nie 
pieprz, Pietrze, pieprzem wieprza bo mozeoz prze- 
pieprzyé wieprza pieprzem.’ ‘That means: ‘ Don’t 
pepper a sucking pig with pepper, Pyotr, or perhaps 
you'll over-pepper the sucking pig with pepper.’ 
Ha, haha?’ 

Susanna Moiseyevna rolled her eyes and broke 
into such a pleasant, infectious laugh that the lieu- 
tenant, looking at her, went off into a loud and merry 
peal of laughter. She took the visitor by the button, 
and went on: 

“You don’t like Jews, of course . . . they’ve 
many faults, like all nations. I don’t dispute that. 
But are the Jews to blame for it? No, it’s not the 
Jews who are to blame, but the Jewish women! 
They are narrow-minded, greedy; there’s no sort of 


208 The Tales of Chekhov 


poetry about them, they’re dull. ... You have 
never lived with a Jewess, so you don’t know how 
charming it is!”’ Susanna Moiseyevna pronounced 
the last words with deliberate emphasis and with 
no eagerness or laughter. She paused as though 
frightened at her own openness, and her face was 
suddenly distorted in a strange, unaccountable way. 
Her eyes stared at the lieutenant without blinking, 
her lips parted and showed clenched teeth. Her 
whole face, her throat, and even her bosom, seemed 
quivering with a spiteful, catlike expression. Still 
keeping her eyes fixed on her visitor, she rapidly 
bent to one side, and swiftly, like a cat, snatched 
something from the table. All this was the work 
of a few seconds. Watching her movements, the 
lieutenant saw five fingers crumple up his IOUs and 
caught a glimpse of the white rustling paper as it 
disappeared in her clenched fist. Such an extraor- 
dinary transition from good-natured laughter to 
crime so appalled him that he turned pale and 
stepped’ back.(2 5» 

And she, still keeping her frightened, searching 
eyes upon him, felt along her hip with her clenched 
fist for her pocket. Her fist struggled convulsively 
for the pocket, like a fish in the net, and could not 
find the opening. In another moment the IOUs 
would have vanished in the recesses of her feminine 
garments, but at that point the lieutenant uttered 
a faint cry, and, moved more by instinct than re- 
flection, seized the Jewess by her arm above the 


Mire 209 


clenched fist. Showing her teeth more than ever, 
she struggled with all her might and pulled her hand 
away. Then Sokolsky put his right arm firmly 
round her waist, and the other round her chest and 
_ a struggle followed. Afraid of outraging her sex 
or hurting her, he tried only to prevent her mov- 
ing, and to get hold of the fist with the IOUs; but 
she wriggled like an eel in his arms with her supple, 
flexible body, struck him in the chest with her elbows, 
and scratched him, so that he could not help touch- 
ing her all over, and was forced to hurt her and dis- 
regard her modesty. 

‘“How unusual this is! How strange!” he 
thought, utterly amazed, hardly able to believe his 
senses, and feeling rather sick from the scent of 
jasmine. 

In silence, breathing heavily, stumbling against 
the furniture, they moved about the room. Susanna 
was carried away by the struggle. She flushed, 
closed her eyes, and forgetting herself, once even 
pressed her face against the face of the lieutenant, 
so that there was a sweetish taste left on his lips. 
At last he caught hold of her clenched hand... . 
Forcing it open, and not finding the papers in it, he 
let go the Jewess. With flushed faces and dishev- 
elled hair, they looked at one another, breathing 
hard. The spiteful, catlike expression on the Jew- 
ess’s face was gradually replaced by a good-natured 
smile. She burst out laughing, and turning on one 
foot, went towards the room where lunch was ready. 


210 The Tales of Chekhov 


The lieutenant moved slowly after her. She sat 
down to the table, and, still flushed and breathing 
hard, tossed off half a glass of port. 

‘Listen ’’— the lieutenant broke the silence — 
“T hope you are joking?” 

‘“‘ Not a bit of it,’’ she answered, thrusting a piece 
of bread into her mouth. 

‘“H’m! . . . How do you wish me to take all 
this?” 

‘““As you choose. Sit down and have lunch! ” 

PeBut 12:. 1 lat’ sridishonestl”? 

‘Perhaps. But don’t trouble to give me a ser- 
mon; I have my own way of looking at things.” 

‘“Won’t you give them back?” 

““Of course not! If you were a poor unfortu- 
nate man, with nothing to eat, then it would be a 
different matter. But — he wants to get married! ” 

‘It’s not my money, you know; it’s my cousin’s! ”’ 

‘And what does your cousin want with money? 
To get fashionable clothes for his wife? But I 
really don’t care whether your belle-seur has dresses 
or not.” 

The lieutenant had ceased to remember that he 
was in a strange house with an unknown lady, and 
did not trouble himself with decorum. He strode 
up and down the room, scowled and nervously fin- 
gered his waistcoat. The fact that the Jewess had 
lowered herself in his eyes by her dishonest action, 
made him feel bolder and more free-and-easy. 

“The devil knows what to make of it!” he 


Mire i 


muttered. ‘‘ Listen. I shan’t go away from here 
until I get the IOUs!” 

‘“ Ah, so much the better,’’ laughed Susanna. 
“If you stay here for good, it will make it livelier 
for me.” 

Excited by the struggle, the lieutenant looked at 
Susanna’s laughing, insolent face, at her munching 
mouth, at her heaving bosom, and grew bolder and 
more audacious. Instead of thinking about the 
IOU he began for some reason recalling with a sort 
of relish his cousin’s stories of the Jewess’s romantic 
adventures, of her free way of life, and these rem- 
iniscences only provoked him to greater audacity. 
Impulsively he sat down beside the Jewess and think- 
ing no more of the IOUs began to eat... . 

‘Will you have vodka or wine?” Susanna asked 
with a laugh. “So you stay till you get the 
10Us? Poor fellow! many days and nights 
you will have to spend with me, waiting for those 
IOUs! Won’t your fiancée have something to say 
about it?” 


II 


Five hours had passed. The lieutenant’s cousin, 
Alexey Ivanovitch Kryukov was walking about the 
rooms of his country-house in his dressing-gown and 
slippers, and looking impatiently out of window. 
He was a tall, sturdy man, with a large black beard 
and a manly face; and as the Jewess had truly said, 


272 The Tales of Chekhov 


he was handsome, though he had reached the age 
when men are apt to grow too stout, puffy, and bald. 
By mind and temperament he was one of those na- 
tures in which the Russian intellectual classes are so 
rich: warm-hearted, good-natured, well-bred, having 
some knowledge of the arts and sciences, some faith, 
and the most chivalrous notions about honour, but 
indolent and lacking in depth. He was fond of 
good eating and drinking, was an ideal whist-player, 
was a connoisseur in women and horses, but in other 
things he was apathetic and sluggish as a seal, and 
to rouse him from his lethargy something extraor- 
dinary and quite revolting was needed, and then he 
would forget everything in the world and display 
intense activity; he would fume and talk of a duel, 
write a petition of seven pages to a Minister, gallop 
at breakneck speed abgithe district, call some one 
publicly ‘a scoundrel#¥vould go to law, and so 
on. 

‘‘ How is it our Sasha’s not back yet?” he kept 
asking his wife, glancing out of window. ‘‘ Why, 
it’s dinner-time! ”’ 

After waiting for the lieutenant till six o’clock, 
they sat down to dinner. When supper-time came, 
however, Alexey Ivanovitch was listening to every 
footstep, to every sound of the door, and kept shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

‘““Strange!’’ he said. ‘‘ The rascally dandy must 
have stayed on at the tenant’s.” 

As he went to bed after supper, Kryukov made 


Mire 213 


up his mind that the lieutenant was being entertained 
at the tenant’s, where after a festive evening he 
was staying the night. 

Alexandr Grigoryevitch only returned next morn- 
ing. He looked extremely crumpled and confused. 

‘““T want to speak to you alone...” he said 
mysteriously to his cousin. 

They went into the study. The lieutenant shut 
the door, and he paced for a long time up and down 
before he began to speak. 

‘‘Something’s happened, my dear fellow,” he be- 
gan, ‘‘that I don’t know how to tell you about. 
You wouldn’t believe it . . .” 

And blushing, faltering, not looking at his cousin, 
he told what had happened with the [OUs. Kryu- 
koy, standing with his feet wide apart and his head 
bent, listened and frowned. 

“Are you joking?” he asked. 

‘“ How the devil could I be joking? It’s no jok- 
ing matter!” 

‘““T don’t understand!’ muttered Kryukov, turn- 
ing crimson and flinging up his hands. “ It’s posi- 
tively . . . immoral on your part. Before your 
very eyes a hussy is up to the devil knows what, a 
serious crime, plays a nasty trick, and you go and 
kiss her!” 

‘But I can’t understand myself how it hap- 
pened!’ whispered the lieutenant, blinking guiltily. 
“Upon my honour, I don’t understand it! It’s the 
first time in my life I’ve come across such a monster! 


214 The Tales of Chekhov 


It’s not her beauty that does for you, not her mind, 


but that . . . you understand . . . insolence, cyni- 
ISHS evancy 
‘Insolence, cynicism... it’s unclean! If 
y 


you've such a longing for insolence and cynicism, you 
might have picked a sow out of the mire and have 
devoured her alive. It would have been cheaper, 
anyway! Instead of two thousand three hundred! ” 

‘“You do express yourself elegantly!” said the 
lieutenant, frowning. ‘I'll pay you back the two 
thousand three hundred! ”’ 

“I know you'll pay it back, but it’s not a ques- 
tion of money! Damn the money! What revolts 
me is your being such a limp rag . . . such filthy 
feebleness! And engaged! With a fiancée!” 

~ Don't) speak of 1t.).°.'” said’ the shentenamt 
blushing. “I loathe myself as it is. I should like 
to sink into the earth. It’s sickening and vexatious 
that I shall have to bother my aunt for that five thou- 
SANG Wiciwis) hs 

Kryukov continued for some time longer express- 
ing his indignation and grumbling, then, as he grew 
calmer, he sat down on the sofa and began to jeer at 
his cousin. 

‘You young officers! ’’ he said with contemptu- 
ous irony. ‘‘ Nice bridegrooms.” 

Suddenly he leapt up as though he had been stung, 
stamped his foot, and ran about the study. 

“No, I’m not going to leave it like that!” he 
said, shaking his fist. “I will have those IOUs, I 


Mire 215 


will! Ill give it her! One doesn’t beat women, 
but I'll break every bone in her body... . [ll 
pound her to a jelly! I’m not a lieutenant! You 
won’t touch me with insolence or cynicism! No-o-o, 
damn her! Mishka!’ he shouted, ‘‘ run and tell 
them to get the racing droshky out for me!” 

Kryukov dressed rapidly, and, without heeding 
the agitated lieutenant, got into the droshky, and 
with a wave of his hand resolutely raced off to 
Susanna Moiseyeyna. For a long time the lieuten- 
ant gazed out of window at the clouds of dust that 
rolled after his cousin’s droshky, stretched, yawned, 
and went to his own room. A quarter of an hour 
later he was sound asleep. 

At six o’clock he was waked up and summoned 
to dinner. 

“How nice this is of Alexey!’ his cousin’s wife 
greeted him in the dining-room. ‘He keeps us 
waiting for dinner.”’ 

‘“Do you mean to say he’s not come back yet?”’ 
yawned the lieutenant. ‘‘H’m! . . . he’s probably 
gone round to see the tenant.” 

But Alexey Ivanovitch was not back by supper 
either. His wife and Sokolsky decided that he was 
playing cards at the tenant’s and would most likely 
stay the night there. What had happened was not 
what they had supposed, however. 

Kryukov returned next morning, and without 
greeting any one, without a word, dashed into his 
study. 


216 The Tales of Chekhov 


“Well?” whispered the lieutenant, gazing at him 
round-eyed. 

Kryukov waved his hand and gave a snort. 

‘“ Why, what’s the matter? What are you laugh- 
ing at?” 

Kryukov flopped on the sofa, thrust his head in 
the pillow, and shook with suppressed laughter. A 
minute later he got up, and looking at the surprised 
lieutenant, with his eyes full of tears from laughing, 
said: 

‘Close the door. Well . .. she is a fe-e-male, 
I beg to inform you! ”’ 

‘“ Did you get the IOUs?” 

Kryukov waved his hand and went off into a peal 
of laughter again. 

‘Well! she is a female!’ he went on. “ Merci 
for the acquaintance, my boy! She’s a devil in pet- 
ticoats. I arrived; I walked in like such an aveng- 
ing Jove, you know, that I felt almost afraid of my- 
self. . . . I frowned, I scowled, even clenched my 
fists to be more awe-inspiring. . . . ‘ Jokes don’t 
pay with me, madam!’ said I, and more in that 
style. And I threatened her with the law and with 
the Governor. To begin with she burst into tears, 
said she’d been joking with you, and even took me 
to the cupboard to give me the money. Then she 
began arguing that the future of Europe lies in the 
hands of the French, and the Russians, swore at 
women. ... Like you, I listened, fascinated, ass 
that I was. . . . She kept singing the praises of my 


Mire oy by 


beauty, patted me on the arm near the shoulder, to 
see how strong I was, and . . . and as you see, I’ve 
only just got away from her! Ha, ha! She’s en- 
thusiastic about you! ” 

‘You're a nice fellow!” laughed the lieutenant. 
‘“A married man! highly respected. ... Well, 
aren’t you ashamed? Disgusted? Joking apart 
though, old man, you’ve got your Queen Tamafa in 
your own neighbourhood. . . .” 

“In my own neighbourhood! Why, you 
wouldn’t find another such chameleon in the whole of 
Russia! I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, 
though I know a good bit about women, too. I 
have known regular devils in my time, but I never 
met anything like this. It is, as you say, by inso- 
lence and cynicism she gets over you. What is so 
attractive in her is the diabolical suddenness, the 
quick transitions, the swift shifting hues. . . . Brrr! 
And the IOU — phew! Write it off for lost. We 
are both great sinners, we'll go halves in our sin. 
I shall put down to you not two thousand three 
hundred, but half of it. Mind, tell my wife I was 
at the tenant’s.” 

Kryukov and the lieutenant buried their heads in 
the pillows, and broke into laughter; they raised 
their heads, glanced at one another, and again sub- 
sided into their pillows. 

‘Engaged! A lieutenant!’ Kryukov jeered. 

“Married!” retorted Sokolsky. ‘‘ Highly re- 


fee 


spected! Father of a family! 


218 The Tales of Chekhov 


At dinner they talked in veiled allusions, winked 
at one another, and, to the surprise of the others, 
were continually gushing with laughter into their 
dinner-napkins. After dinner, still in the best of 
spirits, they dressed up as Turks, and, running after 
one another with guns, played at soldiers with the 
children. In the evening they had a long argument. 
The lieutenant maintained that it was mean and con- 
temptible to accept a dowry with your wife, even 
when there was passionate love on both sides. 
Kryukov thumped the table with his fists and de- 
clared that this was absurd, and that a husband who 
did not like his wife to have property of her own 
was an egoist and a despot. Both shouted, boiled 
over, did not understand each other, drank a good 
deal, and in the end, picking up the skirts of their 
dressing-gowns, went to their bedrooms. They 
soon fell asleep and slept soundly. 

Life went on as before, even, sluggish and free 
from sorrow. The shadows lay on the earth, thun- 
der pealed from the clouds, from time to time the 
wind moaned plaintively, as though to prove that 
nature, too, could lament, but nothing troubled the 
habitual tranquillity of these people. Of Susanna 
Moiseyevna and the IOUs they said nothing. Both 
of them felt, somehow, ashamed to speak of the in- 
cident aloud. Yet they remembered it and thought 
of it with pleasure, as of a curious farce, which life 
had unexpectedly and casually played upon them, and 
which it would be pleasant to recall in old age. 


Mire 219 


On the sixth or seventh day after his visit to the 
Jewess, Kryukov was sitting in his study in the morn- 
ing writing a congratulatory letter to his aunt. Al- 
exandr Grigoryevitch was walking to and fro near 
the table in silence. The lieutenant had slept badly 
that night; he woke up depressed, and now he felt 
bored. He paced up and down, thinking of the 
end of his furlough, of his fiancée, who was expect- 
ing him, of how people could live all their lives in 
the country without feeling bored. Standing at the 
window, for a long time he stared at the trees, 
smoked three cigarettes one after another, and sud- 
denly turned to his cousin. 

“T have a favour to ask you, Alyosha,” he said. 
“Let me have a saddle-horse for the day. . . .”’ 

Kryukov looked searchingly at him and continued 
his writing with a frown. 

“You will, then?” asked the lieutenant. 

Kryukov looked at him again, then deliberately 
drew out a drawer in the table, and taking out a 
thick roll of notes, gave it to his cousin. 

““ Here’s five thousand . . .” he said. ‘‘ Though 
it’s not my money, yet, God bless you, it’s all the 
same. I advise you to send for post-horses at once 
and go away. Yes, really!” 

The lieutenant in his turn looked searchingly at 
Kryukov and laughed. 

“You've guessed right, Alyosha,” he said, red- 
dening. ‘‘It was to her I meant to ride. Yester- 
day evening when the washerwoman gave me that 


220 The Tales of Chekhov 


damned tunic, the one I was wearing then, and it 
smelt of jasmine, why . . . I felt I must go!” 

“You must go away.” 

‘Yes, certainly. And my furlough’s just over. 
I really will go to-day! Yes, by Jove! However 
long one stays, one has to go in the end... . I’m 
going!” 

The post-horses were brought after dinner the 
same day; the lieutenant said good-bye to the Kryu- 
kovs and set off, followed by their good wishes. 

Another week passed. It was a dull but hot and 
heavy day. From early morning Kryukov walked 
aimlessly about the house, looking out of window, 
or turning over the leaves of albums, though he was 
sick of the sight of them already. When he came 
across his wife or children, he began grumbling 
crossly. It seemed to him, for some reason that 
day, that his children’s manners were revolting, that 
his wife did not know how to look after the serv- 
ants, that their expenditure was quite disproportion- 
ate to their income. All this meant that “ the mas- 
ter’? was out of humour. 

After dinner, Kryukov, feeling dissatisfied with 
the soup and the roast meat he had eaten, ordered 
out his racing droshky. He drove slowly out of the 
courtyard, drove at a walking pace for a quarter of 
a mile, and stopped. 

‘Shall. Tog) .* sideive’to her. hosvthat devil 2 ihe 
thought, looking at the leaden sky. 

And Kryukov positively laughed, as though it 


Mire 221 


were the first time that day he had asked himself 
that question. At once the load of boredom was 
lifted from his heart, and there rose a gleam of 
pleasure in his lazy eyes. He lashed the horse... . 

All the way his imagination was picturing how 
surprised the Jewess would be to see him, how he 
would laugh and chat, and come home feeling re- 
BEESMEG.) c.iey's 

“Once a month one needs something to brighten 
one up . . . something out of the common round,” 
he thought, “ something that would give the stag- 
nant organism a good shaking up, a reaction... 
whether it’s a drinking bout, or . . . Susanna. One 
can’t get on without it.” 

It was getting dark when he drove into the yard 
of the vodka distillery. From the open windows 
of the owner’s house came sounds of laughter and 
singing: 


»»” 


“*Brighter than lightning, more burning than flame... . 


sang a powerful, mellow, bass voice. 

‘“ Aha! she has visitors,” thought Kryukov. 

And he was annoyed that she had visitors. 

“ Shall I go back?” he thought with his hand 
on the bell, but he rang all the same, and went up 
the familiar staircase. From the entry he glanced 
into the reception hall. There were about five men 
there — all landowners and officials of his acquaint- 
ance; one, a tall, thin gentleman, was sitting at the 
piano, singing, and striking the keys with his long, 


222 The Tales of Chekhov 


thin fingers. The others were listening and grin- 
ning with enjoyment. Kryukov looked himself up 
and down in the looking-glass, and was about to go 
into the hall, when Susanna Moiseyevna herself 
darted into the entry, in high spirits and wearing the 
same black dress. . . . Seeing Kryukov, she was 
petrified for an instant, then she uttered a little 
scream and beamed with delight. 

“Is it you?” she said, clutching his hand. 
“What a surprise! ” 

‘Here she is!’ smiled Kryukov, putting his arm 
round her waist. ‘‘ Well! Does the destiny of 
Europe still lie in the hands of the French and the 
Russians? ”’ 

“I’m so glad,” laughed the Jewess, cautiously re- 
moving his arm. ‘‘ Come, go into the hall; they’re 
all friends there. . . . I'll go and tell them to bring 
you some tea. Your name’s Alexey, isn’t it? ‘Well, 
goin, come-directly. 2... 

She blew him a kiss and ran out of the entry, 
leaving behind her the same sickly smell of jasmine. 
Kryukoy raised his head and walked into the hall. 
He was on terms of friendly intimacy with all the 
men in the room, but scarcely nodded to them; they, 
too, scarcely responded, as though the places in 
which they met were not quite decent, and as though 
they were in tacit agreement with one another that 
it was more suitable for them not to recognise one 
another. 

From the hall Kryukov walked into the drawing- 


Mire 223 


room, and from it into a second drawing-room. 
On the way he met three or four other guests, also 
men whom he knew, though they barely recognised 
him. Their faces were flushed with drink and mer- 
riment. Alexey Ivanovitch glanced furtively at 
them and marvelled that these men, respectable 
heads of families, who had known sorrow and pri- 
vation, could demean themselves to such pitiful, 
cheap gaiety! He shrugged his shoulders, smiled, 
and walked on. 

‘“ There are places,” he reflected, ‘‘ where a sober 
man feels sick, and a drunken man rejoices. I re- 
member I never could go to the operetta or the 
gipsies when I was sober: wine makes a man more 
good-natured and reconciles him with vice. .. .” 

Suddenly he stood still, petrified, and caught hold 
of the door-post with both hands. At the writing- 
table in Susanna’s study was sitting Lieutenant Al- 
exandr Grigoryevitch. He was discussing some- 
thing in an undertone with a fat, flabby-looking Jew, 
and seeing his cousin, flushed crimson and looked 
down at an album. 

The sense of decency was stirred in Kryukov and 
the blood rushed to his head. Overwhelmed with 
amazement, shame, and anger, he walked up to the 
table without a word. Sokolsky’s head sank lower 
than ever. His face worked with an expression of 
agonising shame. 

“ Ah, it’s you, Alyosha!”’ he articulated, making 
a desperate effort to raise his eyes and to smile. 


224 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘“ Tcalled here to say good-bye, and, as you see... .. 
But to-morrow I am certainly going.” 

‘“What can I say to him? What?” thought 
Alexey Ivanovitch. ‘‘ How can I judge him since 
I’m here myself?” 

And clearing his throat without uttering a word, 
he went out slowly. 


“*Call her not heavenly, and leave her on earth... .’” 


The bass was singing in the hall. A little while 
after, Kryukov’s racing droshky was bumping along 
the dusty road. 


NEIGHBOURS 













“it in Nua ve rte Gale nr pie 
De stale apy hi Sc cane eouingit ithe a 3 

i A ay BACT iy Wheeling 
Hey 4 ea 8 ul ia bi new 


ae Sar CNY a 7a te i 
oun i cheating oe Hex <i “Ona 
pe Hone ins rae el ie i 


oe al bie! i slink a 98 eaten he - “7 


i ag iat whith eens ib oboe bath a 
aeee Prison : kn irvetg. bie hat 
; yt oF iohta os y nag fay ah hee ve ” ne 


 Piponconne 





NEIGHBOURS 


Pyotr MIHALITCH IVASHIN was very much out of 
humour: his sister, a young girl, had gone away to 
live with Vlassitch, a married man. To shake off 
the despondency and depression which pursued him 
at home and in the fields, he called to his aid his 
sense of justice, his genuine and noble ideas — he 
had always defended free-love! — but this was of 
no avail, and he always came back to the same con- 
clusion as their foolish old nurse, that his sister had 
acted wrongly and that Vlassitch had abducted his 
sister. And that was distressing. 

His mother did not leave her room all day long; 
the old nurse kept sighing and speaking in whispers; 
his aunt had been on the point of taking her de- 
parture every day, and her trunks were continually 
being brought down to the hall and carried up again 
to her room. In the house, in the yard, and in the 
garden it was as still as though there were some one 
dead in the house. His aunt, the servants, and even 
the peasants, so it seemed to Pyotr Mihalitch, looked 
at him enigmatically and with perplexity, as though 
they wanted to say “‘ Your sister has been seduced; 
why are you doing nothing?” And he reproached 
himself for inactivity, though he did not know pre- 


cisely what action he ought to have taken. 
227 


228 The Tales of Chekhov 


So passed six days. On the seventh — it was 
Sunday afternoon—a messenger on_ horseback 
brought a letter. The address was in a familiar 
feminine handwriting: “Her Excy. Anna Niko- 
laevna Ivashin.” Pyotr Mihalitch fancied that 
there was something defiant, provocative, in the 
handwriting and in the abbreviation “‘ Excy.” And 
advanced ideas in women are obstinate, ruthless, 
cruel. 

‘She'd rather die than make any concession to 
her unhappy mother, or beg her forgiveness,” 
thought Pyotr Mihalitch, as he went to his mother 
with the letter. 

His mother was lying on her bed, dressed. See- 
ing her son, she rose impulsively, and straightening 
her grey hair, which had fallen from under her cap, 
asked quickly: 

P Wihtat' is 2 "What 1s “it?” 

“This has come . . .” said her son, giving her 
the letter. 

Zina’s name, and even the pronoun “ she” was 
not uttered in the house. Zina was spoken of im- 
personally: “‘ this has come,” “‘ Gone away,” and so 
on. ... Ihe mother recognised her daughter’s 
handwriting, and her face grew ugly and unpleasant, 
and her grey hair escaped again from her cap. 

‘“ No!” she said, with a motion of her hands, as 
though the letter scorched her fingers. “No, no, 
never! Nothing would induce me! ”’ 

‘The mother broke into hysterical sobs of grief 


Neighbours 229 


and shame; she evidently longed to read the letter, 
but her pride prevented her. Pyotr Mihalitch real- 
ised that he ought to open the letter himself and read 
it aloud, but he was overcome by anger such as he 
had never felt before; he ran out into the yard and 
shouted to the messenger: 

‘‘ Say there will be no answer! ‘There will be no 
answer! ‘Tell them that, you beast! ” 

And he tore up the letter; then tears came into 
his eyes, and feeling that he was cruel, miserable, 
and to blame, he went out into the fields. 

He was only twenty-seven, but he was already 
stout. He dressed like an old man in loose, roomy 
clothes, and suffered from asthma. He already 
seemed to be developing the characteristics of an 
elderly country bachelor. He never fell in love, 
never thought of marriage, and loved no one but his 
mother, his sister, his old nurse, and the gardener, 
Vassilitch. He was fond of good fare, of his nap 
after dinner, and of talking about politics and ex- 
alted subjects. He had in his day taken his degree 
at the university, but he now looked upon his studies 
as though in them he had discharged a duty incum- 
bent upon young men between the ages of eighteen 
and twenty-five; at any rate, the ideas which now 
strayed every day through his mind had nothing in 
common with the university or the subjects he had 
studied there. 

In the fields it was hot and still, as though rain 
were coming. It was steaming in the wood, and 


230 The Tales of Chekhov 


there was a heavy fragrant scent from the pines and 
rotting leaves. Pyotr Mihalitch stopped several 
times and wiped his wet brow. He looked at his 
winter corn and his spring oats, walked round the 
clover-field, and twice drove away a partridge with 
its chicks which had strayed in from the wood. And 
all the while he was thinking that this insufferable 
state of things could not go on for ever, and that 
he must end it one way or another. End it stupidly, 
madly, but he must end it. 

“But how? What can I do?” he asked him- 
self, and looked imploringly at the sky and at the 
trees, as though begging for their help. 

But the sky and the trees were mute. His noble 
ideas were no help, and his common sense whispered 
that the agonising question could have no solution 
but a stupid one, and that to-day’s scene with the 
messenger was not the last one of its kind. It was 
terrible to think what was in store for him! 

As he returned home the sun was setting. By 
now it seemed to him that the problem was incap- 
able of solution. He could not accept the accom- 
plished fact, and he could not refuse to accept it, 
and there was no intermediate course. When, tak- 
ing off his hat and fanning himself with his hand- 
kerchief, he was walking along the road, and had 
only another mile and a half to go before he would 
reach home, he heard bells behind him. It was a 
very choice and successful combination of bells, 
which gave a clear crystal note. No one had such 


Neighbours 231 


bells on his horses but the police captain, Medovsky, 
formerly an officer in the hussars, a man in broken- 
down health, who had been a great rake and spend- 
thrift, and was a distant relation of Pyotr Mihalitch. 
He was like one of the family at the Ivashins’ and 
had a tender, fatherly affection for Zina, as well 
as a great admiration for her. 

‘“T was coming to see you,” he said, overtaking 
Pyotr Mihalitch. ‘ Get in; I'll give you a lift.” 

He was smiling and looked cheerful. Evidently 
he did not yet know that Zina had gone to live with 
Vlassitch; perhaps he had been told of it already, 
but did not believe it. Pyotr Mihalitch felt in a 
difficult position. 

“You are very welcome,” he muttered, blushing 
till the tears came into his eyes, and not knowing 
how to lie or what to say. ‘I am delighted,” he 
went on, trying to smile, “but ... Zina is away 
and mother is ill.” 

‘“ How annoying! ” said the police captain, look- 
ing pensively at Pyotr Mihalitch. ‘“‘ And I was 
meaning to spend the evening with you. Where 
has Zinaida Mihalovna gone?” 

‘To the Sinitskys’, and I believe she meant to go 
from there to the monastery. I don’t quite know.” 

The police captain talked a little longer and then 
turned back. Pyotr Mihalitch walked home, and 
thought with horror what the police captain’s feel- 
ings would be when he learned the truth. And 
Pyotr Mihalitch imagined his feelings, and actually 


232 The Tales of Chekhov 


experiencing them himself, went into the house. 

‘Lord help us,” he thought, ‘‘ Lord help us!” 

At evening tea the only one at the table was his 
aunt. As usual, her face wore the expression that 
seemed to say that though she was a weak, defence- 
less woman, she would allow no one to insult her. 
Pyotr Mihalitch sat down at the other end of the 
table (he did not like his aunt) and began drinking 
tea in silence. 

‘Your mother has had no dinner again to-day,” 
said his aunt. ‘“‘ You ought to do something about 
it, Petrusha. Starving oneself is no help in sor- 
row.” 

It struck Pyotr Mihalitch as absurd that his aunt 
should meddle in other people’s business and should 
make her departure depend on Zina’s having gone 
away. He was tempted to say something rude to 
her, but restrained himself. And as he restrained 
himself he felt the time had come for action, and 
that he could not bear it any longer. Either he 
must act at once or fall on the ground, and scream 
and bang his head upon the floor. He pictured 
Vlassitch and Zina, both of them progressive and 
self-satisfied, kissing each other somewhere under 
a maple tree, and all the anger and bitterness that 
had been accumulating in him for the last seven days 
fastened upon Vlassitch. 

‘“One has seduced and abducted my sister,” he 
thought, ‘‘ another will come and murder my mother, 
a third will set fire to the house and sack the place. 


Neighbours 233 


... And all this under the mask of friendship, 
lofty ideas, unhappiness! ”’ 

“No, it shall not be!’ Pyotr Mihalitch cried sud- 
denly, and he brought his fist down on the table. 

He jumped up and ran out of the dining-room. 
In the stable the steward’s horse was standing ready 
saddled. He got on it and galloped off to Vlassitch. 

There was a perfect tempest within him. He 
felt a longing to do something extraordinary, start- 
ling, even if he had to repent of it all his life after- 
wards. Should he call Vlassitch a blackguard, slap 
him in the face, and then challenge him to a duel? 
But Vlassitch was not one of those men who do fight 
duels; being called a blackguard and slapped in the 
face would only make him more unhappy, and would 
make him shrink into himself more than ever. 
These unhappy, defenceless people are the most in- 
sufferable, the most tiresome creatures in the world. 
They can do anything with impunity. When the 
luckless man responds to well-deserved reproach by 
looking at you with eyes full of deep and guilty feel- 
ing, and with a sickly smile bends his head submis- 
sively, even justice itself could not lift its hand 
against him. 

‘“No matter. I'll horsewhip him before her eyes 
and tell him what I think of him,” Pyotr Mihalitch 
decided. 

He was riding through his wood and waste land, 
and he imagined Zina would try to justify her con- 
duct by talking about the rights of women and indi- 


234 The Tales of Chekhov 


vidual freedom, and about there being no difference 
between legal marriage and free union. Like a 
woman, she would argue about what she did not 
understand. And very likely at the end she would 
ask, “‘ How do you come in? What right have you 
to interfere?” 

‘“No, I have no right,’’ muttered Pyotr Mihal- 
itch. ‘* But so much the better. . . . The harsher 
I am, the less right I have to interfere, the better.” 

It was sultry. Clouds of gnats hung over the 
ground and in the waste places the peewits called 
plaintively. Everything betokened rain, but he 
could not see a cloud in the sky. Pyotr Mihalitch 
crossed the boundary of his estate and galloped over 
a smooth, level field. He often went along this 
road and knew every bush, every hollow in it. 
What now in the far distance looked in the dusk like 
a dark cliff was a red church; he could picture it all 
down to the smallest detail, even the plaster on 
the gate and the calves that were always grazing 
in the church enclosure. Three-quarters of a mile 
to the right of the church there was a copse like a 
dark blur — it was Count Koltonovitch’s. And be- 
yond the church Vlassitch’s estate began. 

From behind the church and the count’s copse a 
huge black storm-cloud was rising, and there were 
ashes of white lightning. 

“Here it is!’ thought Pyotr Mihalitch. ‘“ Lord 
help us, Lord help us!”’ 

The horse was soon tired after its quick gallop, 


Neighbours 255 


and Pyotr Mihalitch was tired too. The storm- 
cloud looked at him angrily and seemed to advise 
him to go home. He felt a little scared. 

‘“‘T will prove to them they are wrong,” he tried 
to reassure himself. ‘‘ They will say that it is free- 
love, individual freedom; but freedom means self- 
control and not subjection to passion. It’s not lib- 
erty but license! ” 

He reached the count’s big pond; it looked dark 
blue and frowning under the cloud, and a smell of 
damp and slime rose from it. Near the dam, two 
willows, one old and one young, drooped tenderly 
towards one another. Pyotr Mihalitch and Vlas- 
sitch had been walking near this very spot only a 
fortnight before, humming a students’ song: 


“Youth is wasted, life is nought, when the heart is cold and love- 
less.’ ” 


A wretched song! 

It was thundering as Pyotr Mihalitch rode 
through the copse, and the trees were bending and 
rustling in the wind. He had to make haste. It 
was only three-quarters of a mile through a meadow 
from the copse to Vlassitch’s house. Here there 
were old birch-trees on each side of the road. They 
sad the same melancholy and unhappy air as their 
owner Vlassitch, and looked as tall and lanky as 
he. Big drops of rain pattered on the birches and 
on the grass; the wind had suddenly dropped, and 
there was a smell of wet earth and poplars. Be- 


; 


236 The Tales of Chekhov 


fore him he saw Vlassitch’s fence with a row of yel- 
low acacias, which were tall and lanky too; where 
the fence was broken he could see the neglected 
orchard. 

Pyotr Mihalitch was not thinking now of the 
horsewhip or of a slap in the face, and did not know 
what he would do at Vlassitch’s. He felt nervous. 
He felt frightened on his own account and on his 
sister’s, and was terrified at the thought of seeing 
her. How would she behave with her brother? 
What would they both talk about? And had he not 
better go back before it was too late? As he made 
these reflections, he galloped up the avenue of lime- 
trees to the house, rode round the big clumps of li- 
lacs, and suddenly saw Vlassitch. 

Vlassitch, wearing a cotton shirt, and top-boots, 
bending forward, with no hat on in the rain, was 
coming from the corner of the house to the front 
door. He was followed by a workman with a ham- 
mer and a box of nails. They must have been 
mending a shutter which had been banging in the 
wind. Seeing Pyotr Mihalitch, Vlassitch stopped. 

“Tt’s you!” he said, smiling. ‘ That’s nice.” 

‘“Yes, I’ve come, as you see,” said Pyotr Mihal- 
itch, brushing the rain off himself with both hands. 

‘“‘ Well, that’s capital! I’m very glad,” said Vlas- 
sitch, but he did not hold out his hand: evidently 
he did not venture, but waited for Pyotr Mihalitch 
to hold out his. ‘‘It will do the oats good,” he 
said, looking at the sky. 


Neighbours 237 


ce Yes.”’ 

They went into the house in silence. To the 
right of the hall was a door leading to another 
hall and then to the drawing-room, and’ on the left 
was a little room which in winter was used by the 
steward. Pyotr Mihalitch and Vlassitch went into 
this little room. 

“Where were you caught in the rain?” 

“Not far off, quite close to the house.” 

Pyotr Mihalitch sat down on the bed. He was 
glad of the noise of the rain and the darkness of 
the room. It was better: it made it less dreadful, 
and there was no need to see his companion’s face. 
There was no anger in his heart now, nothing but 
fear and vexation with himself. He felt he had 
made a bad beginning, and that nothing would come 
of this visit. 

Both were silent for some time and affected to be 
listening to the rain. 

‘Thank you, Petrusha,” Vlassitch began, clear- 
ing his throat. ‘I am very grateful to you for 
coming. It’s generous and noble of you. I under- 
stand it, and, believe me, I appreciate it. Believe 
me.” 

He looked out of the window and went on, stand- 
ing in the middle of the room: 

‘“ Everything happened so secretly, as though we 
were concealing it all from you. The feeling that 
you might be wounded and angry has been a blot 
on our happiness all these days. But let me justify 


238 The Tales of Chekhov 


myself. We kept it secret not because we did not 
trust you. ‘To begin with, it all happened suddenly, 
by a kind of inspiration; there was no time to dis- 
cuss it. Besides, it’s such a private, delicate mat- 
ter, and it was awkward to bring a third person in, 
even some one as intimate as you. Above all, in 
all this we reckoned on your generosity. You are 
a very noble and generous person. I am infinitely 
grateful to you. If you ever need my life, come and 
take it.” 

Vlassitch talked in a quiet, hollow bass, always 
on the same droning note; he was evidently agi- 
tated. Pyotr Mihalitch felt it was his turn to speak, 
and that to listen and keep silent would really mean 
playing the part of a generous and noble simpleton, 
and that had not been his idea in coming. He got 
up quickly and said, breathlessly in an undertone: 

‘Listen, Grigory. You know I liked you and 
could have desired no better husband for my sister; 
but what has happened is awful! It’s terrible to 
think of it!” 

‘““Why is it terrible?” asked Vlassitch, with a 
quiver in his voice. ‘It would be terrible if we 
had done wrong, but that isn’t so.” 

“Listen, Grigory. You know I have no preju- 
dices; but, excuse my frankness, to my mind you 
have both acted selfishly. Of course, I shan’t say so 
to my sister — it will distress her; but you ought to 
know: mother is miserable beyond all description.” 

“Yes, that’s sad,” sighed Vlassitch. ‘“‘ We fore- 


Neighbours 229) 


saw that, Petrusha, but what could we have done? 
Because one’s actions hurt other people, it doesn’t 
prove that they are wrong. What’s to be done! 
Every important step one takes is bound to distress 
somebody. If you went to fight for freedom, that 
would distress your mother, too. What’s to be 
done! Any one who puts the peace of his family be- 
fore everything has to renounce the life of ideas 
completely.” 

There was a vivid flash of lightning at the win- 
dow, and the lightning seemed to change the course 
of Vlassitch’s thoughts. He sat down beside Pyotr 
Mihalitch and began saying what was utterly beside 
the point. 

‘“T have such a reverence for your sister, Pe- 
trusha,” he said. ‘‘ When I used to come and see 
you, I felt as though I were going to a holy shrine, 
and I really did worship Zina. Now my rever- 
ence for her grows every day. For me she is some- 
thing higher than a wife—vyes, higher!” Vlas- 
sitch waved his hands. ‘She is my holy of holies. 
Since she is living with me, I enter my house as 
though it were a temple. She is an extraordinary, 
rare, most noble woman!” 

“Well, he’s off now!”’ thought Pyotr Mihalitch; 
he disliked the word ‘‘ woman.” 

‘Why shouldn’t you be married properly?” he 
asked. ‘‘ How much does your wife want for a di- 
vorce?”’ 

“‘ Seventy-five thousand.” 


240 The Tales of Chekhov 


“It’s rather a lot. But if we were to negotiate 
with her?” 

‘“‘ She won't take a farthing less. She is an awful 
woman, brother,” sighed Vlassitch. “I’ve never 
talked to you about her before — it was unpleasant 
to think of her; but now that the subject has come 
up, I'll tell you about her. I married her on the 
impulse of the moment —a fine, honourable im- 
pulse. An officer in command of a battalion of our 
regiment — if you care to hear the details — had 
an affair with a girl of eighteen; that is, to put it 
plainly, he seduced her, lived with her for two 
months, and abandoned her. She was in an awful 
position, brother. She was ashamed to go home 
to her parents; besides, they wouldn’t have received 
her. Her lover had abandoned her; there was 
nothing left for her but to go to the barracks and 
sell herself. The other officers in the regiment were 
indignant. They were by no means saints them- 
selves, but the baseness of it was so striking. Be- 
sides, no one in the regiment could endure the man. 
And to spite him, you understand, the indignant lieu- 
tenants and ensigns began getting up a subscription 
for the unfortunate girl. And when we subalterns 
met together and began to subscribe five or ten 
roubles each, I had a sudden inspiration. I felt it 
was an opportunity to do something fine. I hastened 
to the girl and warmly expressed my sympathy. 
And while I was on my way to her, and while I was 
talking to her, I loved her fervently as a woman 


Neighbours 241 


insulted and injured. Yes. . . . Well, a week later 
I made her an offer. The colonel and my com- 
rades thought my marriage out of keeping with the 
dignity of an officer. That roused me more than 
ever. I wrote a long letter, do you know, in which 
I proved that my action ought to be inscribed in 
the annals of the regiment in letters of gold, and 
so on. I sent the letter to my colonel and copies 
to my comrades. Well, I was excited, and, of 
course, I could not avoid being rude. I was asked 
to leave the regiment. JI have a rough copy of it 
put away somewhere; I'll give it to you to read some- 
time. It was written with great feeling. You will 
see what lofty and noble sentiments I was experienc- 
ing. I resigned my commission and came here with 
my wife. My father had left a few debts, I had 
no money, and from the first day my wife began 
making acquaintances, dressing herself smartly, and 
playing cards, and I was obliged to mortgage the 
estate. She led a bad life, you understand, and you 
are the only one of the neighbours who hasn’t been 
her lover. After two years I gave her all I had to 
set me free and she went off to town. Yes... . 
And now I pay her twelve hundred roubles a year. 
She is an awful woman! There is a fly, brother, 
which lays an egg in the back of a spider so that 
the spider can’t shake it off: the grub fastens upon 
the spider and drinks its heart’s blood. That was 
how this woman fastened upon me and sucks the 
blood of my heart. She hates and despises me for 


242 The Tales of Chekhov 


being so stupid; that is, for marrying a woman like 
her. My chivalry seems to her despicable. ‘A 
wise man cast me off,’ she says, ‘and a fool picked 
me up.’ To her thinking no one but a pitiful idiot 
could have behaved as I did. And that is insuffer- 
ably bitter to me, brother. Altogether, I may say 
in parenthesis, fate has been hard upon me, very 
hard.” 

Pyotr Mihalitch listened to Vlassitch and won- 
dered in perplexity what it was in this man that 
had so charmed his sister. He was not young — 
he was forty-one — lean and lanky, narrow-chested, 
with a long nose, and grey hairs in his beard. He 
talked in a droning voice, had a sickly smile, and 
waved his hands awkwardly as he talked. He had 
neither health, nor pleasant, manly manners, nor 
savoir-faire, nor gaiety, and in all his exterior there 
was something colourless and _ indefinite. He 
dressed without taste, his surroundings were depress- 
ing, he did not care for poetry or painting because 
‘they have no answer to give to the questions of 
the day’’—that is, he did not understand them; 
music did not touch him. He was a poor farmer. 

His estate was in a wretched condition and was 
mortgaged; he was paying twelve per cent. on the 
second mortgage and owed ten thousand on personal 
securities as well. When the time came to pay 
the interest on the mortgage or to send money to 
his wife, he asked every one to lend him money with 
as much agitation as though his house were on fire, 


Neighbours 243 


and, at the same time losing his head, he would sell 
the whole of his winter store of fuel for five roubles 
and a stack of straw for three roubles, and then have 
his garden fence or old cucumber-frames chopped 
up to heat his stoves. His meadows were ruined 
by pigs, the peasants’ cattle strayed in the under- 
growth in his woods, and every year the old trees 
were fewer and fewer: beehives and rusty pails lay 
about in his garden and kitchen-garden. He had 
neither talents nor abilities, nor even ordinary ca- 
pacity for living like other people. In practical life 
he was a weak, naive man, easy to deceive and to 
cheat, and the peasants with good reason called him 
“simple.” 

He was a Liberal, and in the district was re- 
garded as a “ Red,” but even his progressiveness 
was a bore. There was no originality nor moving 
power about his independent views: he was revolted, 
indignant, and delighted always on the same note; 
it was always spiritless and ineffective. Even in mo- 
ments of strong enthusiasm he never raised his head 
or stood upright. But the most tiresome thing of 
all was that he managed to express even his best and 
finest ideas so that they seemed in him commonplace 
and out of date. It reminded one of something old 
one had read long ago, when slowly and with an air 
of profundity he would begin discoursing of his 
noble, lofty moments, of his best years; or when he 
went into raptures over the younger generation, 
which has always been, and still is, in advance of 


244 The Tales of Chekhov 


society; or abused Russians for donning their dress- 
ing-gowns at thirty and forgetting the principles of 
their alma mater. If you stayed the night with him, 
he would put Pissarev or Darwin on your bedroom 
table; if you said you had read it, he would go and 
bring Dobrolubov. 

In the district this was called free-thinking, and 
many people looked upon this free-thinking as an 
innocent and harmless eccentricity; it made him pro- 
foundly unhappy, however. It was for him the 
maggot of which he had just been speaking; it had 
fastened upon him and was sucking his life-blood. 
In his past there had been the strange marriage in 
the style of Dostoevsky; long letters and copies writ- 
ten in a bad, unintelligible hand-writing, but with 
great feeling, endless misunderstandings, explana- 
tions, disappointments, then debts, a second mort- 
gage, the allowance to his wife, the monthly borrow- 
ing of money —and all this for no benefit to any 
one, either himself or others. And in the present, 
as in the past, he was still in a nervous flurry, on 
the lookout for heroic actions, and poking his nose 
into other people’s affairs; as before, at every 
favourable opportunity there were long letters and 
copies, wearisome, stereotyped conversations about 
the village community, or the revival of handicrafts 
or the establishment of cheese factories — conversa- 
tions as like one another as though he had prepared 
them, not in his living brain, but by some mechanical 


Neighbours 245 


process. And finally this scandal with Zina of which 
one could not see the end! 

And meanwhile Zina was young — she was only 
twenty-two — good-looking, elegant, gay; she was 
fond of laughing, chatter, argument, a passionate 
musician; she had good taste in dress, in furniture, 
in books, and in her own home she would not have 
put up with a room like this, smelling of boots and 
cheap vodka. She, too, had advanced ideas, but 
in her free-thinking one felt the overflow of energy, 
the vanity of a young, strong, spirited girl, passion- 
ately eager to be better and more original than 
others. . . . How had it happened that she had 
fallen in love with Vlassitch? 

“ He is a Quixote, an obstinate fanatic, a. maniac,” 
thought Pyotr Mihalitch, “‘ and she is as soft, yield- 
ing, and weak in character as I am. . . . She and 
I give in easily, without resistance. She loves 
him; but, then, I, too, love him in spite of every- 
thing.” 

Pyotr Muihalitch considered Vlassitch a good, 
straightforward man, but narrow and one-sided. 
In his perturbations and his sufferings, and in fact 
in his whole life, he saw no lofty aims, remote or 
immediate; he saw nothing but boredom and inca- 
pacity for life. His self-sacrifice and all that Vlas- 
sitch himself called heroic actions or noble impulses 
seemed to him a useless waste of force, unnecessary 
blank shots which consumed a great deal of powder. 


246 The Tales of Chekhov 


And Vlassitch’s fanatical belief in the extraordinary 
loftiness and faultlessness of his own way of think- 
ing struck him as naive and even morbid; and the 
fact that Vlassitch all his life had contrived to mix 
the trivial with the exalted, that he had made a 
stupid marriage and looked upon it as an act of hero- 
ism, and then had affairs with other women and 
regarded that as a triumph of some idea or other 
was simply incomprehensible. 

Nevertheless, Pyotr Mihalitch was fond of Vlas- 
sitch; he was conscious of a sort of power in him, 
and for some reason he had never had the heart to 
contradict him. 

Vlassitch sat down quite close to him for a talk 
in the dark, to the accompaniment of the rain, and 
he had cleared his throat as a prelude to beginning 
on something lengthy, such as the history of his 
marriage. But it was intolerable for Pyotr Mihal- 
itch to listen to him; he was tormented by the 
thought that he would see his sister directly. 

“Yes, you’ve had bad luck,” he said gently; “ but, 
excuse me, we’ve been wandering from the point. 
That’s not what we are talking about.” 

“Yes, yes, quite so. Well, let us come back to 
the point,” said Vlassitch, and he stood up. “I 
tell you, Petrusha, our conscience is clear. We 
are not married, but there is no need for me to 
prove to you that our marriage is perfectly legiti- 
mate. You are as free in your ideas as I am, and, 
happily, there can be no disagreement between us 


Neighbours 247 


on that point. As for our future, that ought not to 
alarm you. I'll work in the sweat of my brow, I'll 
work day and night —in fact, I will strain every 
nerve to make Zina happy. Her life will be a 
splendid one! You may ask, am I able to doit. I 
am, brother! When a man devotes every minute 
to one thought, it’s not difficult for him to attain 
his object. But let us go to Zina; it will be a joy 
to her to see you.” 

Pyotr Mihalitch’s heart began to beat. He got 
up and followed Vlassitch into the hall, and from 
there into the drawing-room. There was nothing 
in the huge gloomy room but a piano and a long 
row of old chairs ornamented with bronze, on which 
no one ever sat. [here was a candle alight on 
the piano. From the drawing-room they went in 
silence into the dining-room. This room, too, was 
large and comfortless; in the middle of the room 
there was a round table with two leaves with six 
thick legs, and only one candle. A clock in a large 
. mahogany case like an ikon stand pointed to half- 
past two. 

Vlassitch opened the door into the next room and 
said: 

‘“* Zina, here is Petrusha come to see us! ” 

At once there was the sound of hurried footsteps 
and Zina came into the dining-room. She was tall, 
plump, and very pale, and, just as when he had seen 
her for the last time at home, she was wearing a 
black skirt and a red blouse, with a large buckle on 


248 The Tales of Chekhov 


her belt. She flung one arm round her brother and 
kissed him on the temple. 

‘What a storm!” she said. ‘‘ Grigory went off 
somewhere and I was left quite alone in the house.” 

She was not embarrassed, and looked at her 
brother as frankly and candidly as at home; looking 
at her, Pyotr Mihalitch, too, lost his embarrassment. 

‘But you are not afraid of storms,” he said, sit- 
ting down at the table. 

“No,” she said, ‘‘ but here the rooms are so big, 
the house is so old, and when there is thunder it all 
rattles like a cupboard full of crockery. It’s a 
charming house altogether,” she went on, sitting 
down opposite her brother. ‘“ There’s some pleas- 
ant memory in every room. In my room, only 
fancy, Grigory’s grandfather shot himself.” 

‘“In August we shall have the money to do up 
the lodge in the garden,” said Vlassitch. 

‘““For some reason when it thunders I think of 
that grandfather,’ Zina went on. ‘And in this 
dining-room somebody was flogged to death.” 

“That's an actual fact,” said Vlassitch,.and he 
looked with wide-open eyes at Pyotr Mihalitch. 
‘“‘ Sometime in the forties this place was let to a 
Frenchman called Olivier. The portrait of his 
daughter is lying in an attic now —a very pretty 
girl. This Olivier, so my father told me, despised 
Russians for their ignorance and treated them with 
cruel derision. Thus, for instance, he insisted on 
the priest walking without his hat for half a mile 


Neighbours 249 


round his house, and on the church bells being rung 
when the Olivier family drove through the village. 
(Phe serfs and altogether the humble of this world, 
of course, he treated with even less ceremony. Once 
there came along this road one of the simple-hearted 
sons of wandering Russia, somewhat after the style 
of Gogol’s divinity student, Homa Brut. He asked 
for a night’s lodging, pleased the bailiffs, and was 
given a job at the office of the estate. There are 
many variations of the story. Some say the divinity 
student stirred up the peasants, others that Olivier’s 
daughter fell in love with him. I don’t know which 
is true, only one fine evening Olivier called him in 
here and cross-examined him, then ordered him to 
be beaten. Do you know, he sat here at this table 
drinking claret while the stable-boys beat the man. 
He must have tried to wring something out of him. 
Towards morning the divinity student died of the 
torture and his body was hidden. ‘They say it was 
thrown into Koltovitch’s pond. There was an in- 
quiry, but the Frenchman paid some thousands to 
some one in authority and went away to Alsace. 
His lease was up just then, and so the matter ended.”’ 

“What scoundrels!” said Zina, shuddering. 

‘“ My father remembered Olivier and his daughter 
well. He used to say she was remarkably beautiful 
and eccentric. I imagine the divinity student had 
done both — stirred up the peasants and won the 
daughter’s heart. Perhaps he wasn’t a divinity stu- 
dent at all, but some one travelling incognito.”’ 


250 The Tales of Chekhov 


Zina grew thoughtful; the story of the divinity 
student and the beautiful French girl had evidently 
carried her imagination far away. It seemed to 
Pyotr Mihalitch that she had not changed in the 
least during the last week, except that she was a 
little paler. She looked calm and just as usual, as 
though she had come with her brother to visit Vlas- 
sitch. But Pyotr Mihalitch felt that some change 
had taken place in himself. Before, when she was 
living at home, he could have spoken to her about 
anything, and now he did not feel equal to asking 
her the simple question, “‘ How do you like being 
here?’’ ‘The question seemed awkward and un- 
necessary. Probably the same change had taken 
place in her. She was in no haste to turn the con- 
versation to her mother, to her home, to her rela- 
tions with Vlassitch; she did not defend herself, she 
did not say that free unions are better than mar- 
riages in the church; she was not agitated, and 
calmly brooded over the story of Olivier. . . . And 
why had they suddenly begun talking of Olivier? 

“You are both of you wet with the rain,” said 
Zina, and she smiled joyfully; she was touched by 
this point of resemblance between her brother and 
Vlassitch. 

And Pyotr Mihalitch felt all the bitterness and 
horror of his position. He thought of his deserted 
home, the closed piano, and Zina’s bright little room 
into which no one went now; he thought there were 
no prints of little feet on the garden-paths, and that 


Neighbours 251 


before tea no one went off, laughing gaily, to bathe. 
What he had clung to more and more from his 
childhood upwards, what he had loved thinking 
about when he used to sit in the stuffy class-room or 
the lecture theatre — brightness, purity, and joy, 
everything that filled the house with life and light, 
had gone never to return, had vanished, and was 
mixed up with a coarse, clumsy story of some bat- 
talion. oficer, a chivalrous lieutenant, a depraved 
woman and a grandfather who had shot himself. 
. . . And to begin to talk about his mother or to 
think that the past could ever return would mean 
not understanding what was clear. 

Pyotr Mihalitch’s eyes filled with tears and his 
hand began to tremble as it lay on the table. Zina 
guessed what he was thinking about, and her eyes, 
too, glistened and looked red. 

‘Grigory, come here,” she said to Vlassitch. 

They walked away to the window and began talk- 
ing of something in a whisper. From the way that 
Vlassitch stooped down to her and the way she 
looked at him, Pyotr Mihalitch realised again that 
everything was irreparably over, and that it was no 
use to talk of anything. Zina went out of the 
room. 

‘Well, brother!’ Vlassitch began, after a brief 
silence, rubbing his hands and smiling. “I called 
our life happiness just now, but that was, so to speak, 
poetical license. In reality, there has not been a 
sense of happiness so far. Zina has been thinking 


252 The Tales of Chekhov 


all the time of you, of her mother, and has been 
worrying; looking at her, I, too, felt worried. 
Hers is a bold, free nature, but, you know, it’s 
dificult when you’re not used to it, and she is young, 
too. The servants call her ‘ Miss’; it seems a trifle, 
but it upsets her. There it is, brother.” 

Zina brought in a plateful of strawberries. She 
was followed by a little maidservant, looking 
crushed and humble, who set a jug of milk on the 
table and made a very low bow: she had something 
about her that was in keeping with the old furniture, 
something petrified and dreary. 

The sound of the rain had ceased. Pyotr Mihal- 
itch ate strawberries while Vlassitch and Zina looked 
at him in silence. ‘The moment of the inevitable but 
useless conversation was approaching, and all three 
felt the burden of it. Pyotr Mihalitch’s eyes filled 
with tears again; he pushed away his plate and said 
that he must be going home, or it would be getting 
late, and perhaps it would rain again. The time 
had come when common decency required Zina to 
speak of those at home and of her new life. 

““ How are things at home?”’ she asked rapidly, 
and her pale face quivered. ‘‘ How is mother? ” 

“You know mother . . .”’ said Pyotr Mihalitch, 
not looking at her. 

‘“Petrusha, you’ve thought a great deal about 
what has happened,” she said, taking hold of her 
brother’s sleeve, and he knew how hard it was for 
her to speak. ‘‘ You've thought a great deal: tell 


Neighbours 253 


me, can we reckon on mother’s accepting Grigory 
. and the whole position, one day?” 

She stood close to her brother, face to face with 
him, and he was astonished that she was so beauti- 
ful, and that he seemed not to have noticed it before. 
And it seemed to him utterly absurd that his sister, 
so like his mother, pampered, elegant, should be liv- 
ing with Vlassitch and in Vlassitch’s house, with the 
petrified servant, and the table with six legs — in the 
house where a man had been flogged to death, and 
that she was not going home with him, but was 
staying here to sleep. 

‘““You know mother,” he said, not answering her 
question. ‘I think you ought to have .. . to do 
something, to ask her forgiveness or something. .. .” 

“But to ask her forgiveness would mean pretend- 
ing we had done wrong. I’m ready to tell a lie to 
comfort mother, but it won’t lead anywhere. I 
know mother. Well, what will be, must be!”’ said 
Zina, growing more cheerful now that the most un- 
pleasant had been said. ‘‘ We'll wait for five years, 
ten years, and be patient, and then God’s will be 
done.” 

She took her brother’s arm, and when she walked 
through the dark hall she squeezed close to him. 
They went out on the steps. Pyotr Mihalitch said 
good-bye, got on his horse, and set off at a walk; 
Zina and Vlassitch walked a little way with him. It 
was still and warm, with a delicious smell of hay; 
stars were twinkling brightly between the clouds. 


254 The Tales of Chekhov 


Vlassitch’s old garden, which had seen so many 
gloomy stories in its time, lay slumbering in the dark- 
ness, and for some reason it was mournful riding 
through it. 

‘Zina and I to-day after dinner spent some really 
exalted moments,” said Vlassitch. ‘‘I read aloud 
to her an excellent article on the question of emi- 
gration. You must read it, brother! You really 
must. It’s remarkable for its lofty tone. I could 
not resist writing a letter to the editor to be for- 
warded to the author. I wrote only a single line: 
“I thank you and warmly press your noble hand.’ ”’ 

Pyotr Mihalitch was tempted to say, “‘ Don’t med- 
dle in what does not concern you,” but he held his 
tongue. 

Vlassitch walked by his right stirrup and Zina by 
the left; both seemed to have forgotten that they 
had to go home. It was damp, and they had almost 
reached Koltovitch’s copse. Pyotr Mihalitch felt 
that they were expecting something from him, 
though they hardly knew what it was, and he felt 
unbearably sorry for them. Now as they walked 
by the horse with submissive faces, lost in thought, 
he had a deep conviction that they were unhappy, 
and could not be happy, and their love seemed to 
him a melancholy, irreparable mistake. Pity and 
the sense that he could do nothing to help them re- 
duced him to that state of spiritual softening when 
he was ready to make any sacrifice to get rid of the 
painful feeling of sympathy. 


Neighbours 255 


*T’ll come over sometimes for a night,” he said. 

But it sounded as though he were making a con- 
cession, and did not satisfy him. When they 
stopped near Koltovitch’s copse to say good-bye, he 
bent down to Zina, touched her shoulder, and said: 

“You are right, Zina! You have done well.” 
To avoid saying more and bursting into tears, he 
lashed his horse and galloped into the wood. As 
he rode into the darkness, he looked round and saw 
Vlassitch and Zina walking home along the road — 
he taking long strides, while she walked with a 
hurried, jerky step beside him — talking eagerly 
about something. 

‘“T am an old woman!” thought Pyotr Mihal- 
itch. “I went to solve the question and I have only 
made it more complicated — there it is! ”’ 

He was heavy at heart. When he got out of the 
copse he rode at a walk and then stopped his horse 
near the pond. He wanted to sit and think without 
moving. The moon was rising and was reflected 
in a streak of red on the other side of the pond. 
There were low rumbles of thunder in the distance. 
Pyotr Mihalitch looked steadily at the water and 
imagined his sister’s despair, her martyr-like pallor, 
the tearless eyes with which she would conceal her 
humiliation from others. He imagined her with 
child, imagined the death of their mother, her 
funeral, Zina’s horror. . . . The proud, supersti- 
tious old woman would be sure to die of grief. Ter- 
rible pictures of the future rose before him on the 


256 The Tales of Chekhov 


background of smooth, dark water, and among pale 
feminine figures he saw himself, a weak, cowardly 
man with a guilty face. 

A hundred paces off on the right bank of the 
pond, something dark was standing motionless: was 
it a man or a tall post? Pyotr Mihalitch thought 
of the divinity student who had been killed and 
thrown into the pond. 

“Olivier behaved inhumanly, but one way or an- 
other he did settle the question, while I have settled 
nothing and have only made it worse,” he thought, 
gazing at the dark figure that looked like a ghost. 
‘““ He said and did what he thought right while I 
say and do what I don’t think ie and I don’t 
know really what I do think. 

He rode up to the dark foutey it was an old rot- 
ten post, the relic of some shed. 

From Koltovitch’s copse and garden there came 
a strong fragrant scent of lilies of the valley and 
honey-laden flowers. Pyotr Mihalitch rode along 
the bank of the pond and looked mournfully into 
the water. And thinking about his life, he came 
to the conclusion he had never said or acted upon 
what he really thought, and other people had repaid 
him in the same way. And so the whole of life 
seemed to him as dark as this water in which the 
night sky was reflected and water-weeds grew in a 
tangle. And it seemed to him that nothing could 
ever set it right. 


AT HOME 





se AC irae ole a ok NG hit enh peat: 


whe ia a a oy hy mi NG GR 


cs Ph i e? deine et pe. aes 
Weise HOR INR A ear Sis io oy 
Sr Te hes He ny Aisa uy 2 a 

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Ro aa prea eer hs: Ta ae eek | 
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2d UC Sa ae oT Os a ike 0 ree: ; 


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ee ‘ ‘i Rie eid 


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Rene Cay Rath cities oa coy tn ean 


Prune Phi: Mea MN ig ed ‘pelea teed 
ie ot Hae: Weta, . WOE mar 1 i aaa ted els The 
\-aescenel sundial eva ais 
ree oe: Wait ma ia 


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AT; HOME 
I 


Tue Don railway. A quiet, cheerless station, white 
and solitary in the steppe, with its walls baking in the 
sun, without a speck of shade, and, it seems, without 
a human being. The train goes on after leaving 
one here; the sound of it is scarcely audible and 
dies away at last. Outside the station it is a desert, 
and there are no horses but one’s own. One gets 
into the carriage — which is so pleasant after the 
train — and is borne along the road through the 
steppe, and by degrees there are unfolded before one 
views such as one does not see near Moscow — 
immense, endless, fascinating in their monotony. 
The steppe, the steppe, and nothing more; in the 
distance an ancient barrow or a windmill; ox-wag- 
gons laden with coal trail by. .. . Solitary birds 
fly low over the plain, and a drowsy feeling comes 
with the monotonous beat of their wings. It is hot. 
Another hour or so passes, and still the steppe, the 
steppe, and still in the distance the barrow. The 
driver tells you something, some long unnecessary 
tale, pointing into the distance with his whip. And 
tranquillity takes possession of the soul; one is loth 
to think of the past... . 
259 


260 The Tales of Chekhov 


_ A carriage with three horses had been sent to 
‘fetch Vera Ivanovna Kardin. The driver put in 
her luggage and set the harness to rights. 

“Everything just as it always has been,” said 
Vera, looking about her. ‘“ I was a little girl when 
I was here last, ten years ago. I remember old 
Boris came to fetch me then. Is he still living, I 
wonder?” 

The driver made no reply, but, like a Little Rus- 
sian, looked at her angrily and clambered on to the 
box. 

It was a twenty-mile drive from the station, and 
Vera, too, abandoned herself to the charm of the 
steppe, forgot the past, and thought only of the 
wide expanse, of the freedom. MHealthy, clever, 
beautiful, and young— she was only three-and- 
twenty — she had hitherto lacked nothing in her 
life but just this space and freedom. 

The steppe, the steppe. . . . The horses trotted, 
the sun rose higher and higher; and it seemed to 
Vera that never in her childhood had the steppe 
been so rich, so luxuriant in June; the wild flowers 
were green, yellow, lilac, white, and a fragrance 
rose from them and from the warmed earth; and 
there were strange blue birds along the roadside. 
. . . Vera had long got out of the habit of praying, 
but now, struggling with drowsiness, she mur- 
mured: 

“Lord, grant that I may be happy here.” 

And there was peace and sweetness in her soul, 


At Home 261 


and she felt as though she would have been glad 
to drive like that all her life, looking at the steppe, 

Suddenly there was a deep ravine overgrown with 
oak saplings and alder-trees; there was a moist feel- 
ing in the air —there must have been a spring at 
the bottom. On the near side, on the very edge 
of the ravine, a covey of partridges rose noisily. 
Vera remembered that in old days they used to go 
for evening walks to this ravine; so it must be near 
home! And now she could actually see the poplars, 
the barn, black smoke rising on one side — they 
were burning old straw. And there was Auntie 
Dasha coming to meet her and waving her handker- 
chief; grandfather was on the terrace. Oh dear, 
how happy she was! 

“My darling, my darling!”’’ cried her aunt, 
shrieking as though she were in hysterics. ‘ Our 
real mistress has come! You must understand you 
are our mistress, you are our queen! Here every- 
thing is yours! My darling, my beauty, I am not 
your aunt, but your willing slave! ” 

Vera had no relations but her aunt and her grand- 
father; her mother had long been dead; her father, 
an engineer, had died three months before at Kazan, 
on his way from Siberia. Her grandfather had a 
big grey beard. He was stout, red-faced, and asth- 
matic, and walked leaning on a cane and sticking his 
stomach out. Her aunt, a lady of forty-two, drawn 
in tightly at the waist and fashionably dressed with 
sleeves high on the shoulder, evidently tried to look 


262 The Tales of Chekhov 


young and was still anxious to be charming; she 
walked with tiny steps with a wriggle of her spine. 

‘Will you love us?” she said, embracing Vera, 
“You are not proud? ”’ 

At her grandfather’s wish there was a thanksgiv- 
ing service, then they spent a long while over dinner 
—and Vera’s new life began. She was given the 
best room. All the rugs in the house had been put 
in it, and a great many flowers; and when at night 
she lay down in her snug, wide, very soft bed and 
covered herself with a silk quilt that smelt of old 
clothes long stored away, she laughed with pleas- 
ure. Auntie Dasha came in for a minute to wish 
her good-night. 

‘“ Here you are home again, thank God,”’ she said, 
sitting down on the bed. ‘“‘ As you see, we get along 
very well and have everything we want. There’s 
only one thing: your grandfather is in a poor way! 
A terribly poor way! He is short of breath and he 
has begun to lose his memory. And you remember 
how strong, how vigorous, he used to be! There 
was no doing anything with him. . . . In old days, 
if the servants didn’t please him or anything else 
went wrong, he would jump up at once and shout: 
*‘ Twenty-five strokes! The birch!’ But now he 
has grown milder and you never hear him. And 
besides, times are changed, my precious; one mayn’t 
beat them nowadays. Of course, they oughtn’t to 
be beaten, but they need looking after.” 

‘ And are they beaten now, auntie? ’’ asked Vera. 


At Home 263 


‘“* The steward beats them sometimes, but I never 
do, bless their hearts!’ And your grandfather some- 
times lifts his stick from old habit, but he never beats 
them.” 

Auntie Dasha yawned and crossed herself over 
her mouth and her right ear. 

‘Tt’s not dull here?’ Vera inquired. 

‘What shall I say? There are no landowners 
living here now, but there have been works built 
near, darling, and there are lots of engineers, doc- 
tors, and mine managers. Of course, we have the- 
atricals and concerts, but we play cards more than 
anything. (They come to us, too. Dr. Neshtcha- 
pov from the works comes to see us — such a hand- 
some, interesting man! He fell in love with your 
photograph. I made up my mind: he is Verotchka’s 
destiny, I thought. He’s young, handsome, he has 
means ——a good match, in fact. And of course 
you’re a match for any one. You're of good family. 
The place is mortgaged, it’s true, but it’s in good 
order and not neglected; there is my share in it, but 
it will all come to you; I am your willing slave. 
And my brother, your father, left you fifteen thou- 
sand roubles. . . . But I see you can’t keep your 
eyes open. Sleep, my child.” 

Next day Vera spent a long time walking round 
the house. The garden, which was old and unat- 
tractive, lying inconveniently upon the slope, had no 
paths, and was utterly neglected; probably the care 
of it was regarded as an unnecessary item in the 


264. The Tales of Chekhov 


management. ‘There were numbers of grass-snakes. 
Hoopoes flew about under the trees calling “ Oo- 
too-toot!’’ as though they were trying to remind 
her of something. At the bottom of the hill there 
was a river overgrown with tall reeds, and half a 
mile beyond the river was the village. From the 
garden Vera went out into the fields; looking into 
the distance, thinking of her new life in her own 
home, she kept trying to grasp what was in store 
for her. ‘The space, the lovely peace of the steppe, 
told her that happiness was near at hand, and per- 
haps was here already; thousands of people, in fact, 
would have said: “‘ What happiness to be young, 
healthy, well-educated, to be living on one’s own 
estate!’’ And at the same time the endless plain, 
all alike, without one living soul, frightened her, and 
at moments it was clear to her that its peaceful 
green vastness would swallow up her life and reduce 
it to nothingness. She was very young, elegant, fond 
of life; she had finished her studies at an aristocratic 
boarding-school, had learnt three languages, had 
read a great deal, had travelled with her father — 
and could all this have been meant to lead to noth- 
ing but settling down in a remote country-house in 
the steppe, and wandering day after day from the 
garden into the fields and from the fields into the 
garden to while away the time, and then sitting at 
home listening to her grandfather’s breathing? But 
what could she do? Where could she go? She 
could find no answer, and as she was returning home 


At Home 265 


she doubted whether she would be happy here, and 
thought that driving from the station was far more 
interesting than living here. 

Dr. Neshtchapov drove over from the works. 
He was a doctor, but three years previously he had 
taken a share in the works, and had become one of 
the partners; and now he no longer looked upon 
medicine as his chief vocation, though he still prac- 
tised. In appearance he was a pale, dark man in a 
white waistcoat, with a good figure; but to guess 
what there was in his heart and his brain was difh- 
cult. He kissed Auntie Dasha’s hand on greeting 
her, and was continually leaping up to set a chair 
or give his seat to some one. He was very silent 
and grave all the while, and, when he did speak, it 
was for some reason impossible to hear and under- 
stand his first sentence, though he spoke correctly 
and not in a low voice. 

“You play the piano?” he asked Vera, and im-. 
mediately leapt up, as she had dropped her hand- 
kerchief. 

He stayed from midday to midnight without 
speaking, and Vera found him very unattractive. 
She thought that a white waistcoat in the country 
was bad form, and his elaborate politeness, his man- 
ners, and his pale, serious face with dark eyebrows, 
were mawkish; and it seemed to her that he was 
perpetually silent, probably because he was stupid. 
When he had gone her aunt said enthusiastically: 

“Well? Isn’t he charming?” 


266 The Tales of Chekhov 


II 


Auntie Dasha looked after the estate. Tightly 
laced, with jingling bracelets on her wrists, she went 
into the kitchen, the granary, the cattle-yard, trip- 
ping along with tiny steps, wriggling her spine; and 
whenever she talked to the steward or to the peas- 
ants, she used, for some reason, to put on a pince- 
nez. Vera’s grandfather always sat in the same 
place, playing patience or dozing. He ate a very 
great deal at dinner and supper; they gave him the 
dinner cooked to-day and what was left from yester- 
day, and cold pie left from Sunday, and salt meat 
from the servants’ dinner, and he ate it all greedily. 
And every dinner left on Vera such an impression, 
that when she saw afterwards a flock of sheep 
driven by, or flour being brought from the mill, she 
thought, ‘Grandfather will eat that.’ For the 
most part he was silent, absorbed in eating or in 
patience; but it sometimes happened at dinner that 
at the sight of Vera he would be touched and say 
tenderly: 

““My only grandchild! Verotchka!”’ 

And tears would glisten in his eyes. Or his face 
would turn suddenly crimson, his neck would swell, 
he would look with fury at the servants, and ask, 
tapping with his stick: 

‘““Why haven’t you brought the horse-radish?” 

In winter he led a perfectly inactive existence; 
in summer he sometimes drove out into the fields 


At Home 267 


to look at the oats and the hay; and when he came 
back he would flourish his stick and declare that 
everything was neglected now that he was not there. 
to look after it. 

“Your grandfather is out of humour,’ Auntie 
Dasha would whisper. ‘ But it’s nothing now to 
what it used to be in the old days: ‘ Twenty-five 
strokes! The birch!’” 

Her aunt complained that every one had grown 
lazy, that no one did anything, and that the estate 
yielded no profit. Indeed, there was no systematic 
farming; they ploughed and sowed a little simply 
from habit, and in reality did nothing and lived in 
idleness. Meanwhile there was a running to and 
fro, reckoning and worrying all day long; the bustle 
in the house began at five o’clock in the morning; 
there were continual sounds of “‘ Bring it,” ‘‘ Fetch 
it,” “‘ Make haste,” and by the evening the servants 
were utterly exhausted. Auntie Dasha changed 
her cooks and her housemaids every week; 
sometimes she discharged them for immorality; 
sometimes they went of their own accord, complain- 
ing that they were worked to death. None of the 
village people would come to the house as servants; 
Auntie Dasha had to hire them from a distance. 
There was only one girl from the village living in 
the house, Alyona, and she stayed because her whole 
family — old people and children — were living 
upon her wages. ‘This Alyona, a pale, rather stupid 
little thing, spent the whole day turning out the 


268 The Tales of Chekhov 


rooms, waiting at table, heating the stoves, sewing, 
washing; but it always seemed as though she were 
only pottering about, treading heavily with her 
boots, and were nothing but a hindrance in the house. 
In her terror that she might be dismissed and sent 
home, she often dropped and broke the crockery, 
and they stopped the value of it out of her wages, 
and then her mother and grandmother would come 
and bow down at Auntie Dasha’s feet. 

Once a week or sometimes oftener visitors would 
arrive. Her aunt would come to Vera and say: 

‘You should sit a little with the visitors, or else 
they'll think that you are stuck up.” 

Vera would go in to the visitors and play vint 
with them for hours together, or play the piano for 
the visitors to dance; her aunt, in high spirits and 
breathless from dancing, would come up and whis- 
per to her: 

‘Be nice to Marya Nikiforovna.”’ 

On the sixth of December, St. Nikolay’s Day, a 
large party of about thirty arrived all at once; they 
played vint until late at night, and many of them 
stayed the night. In the morning they sat down 
to cards again, then they had dinner, and when 
Vera went to her room after dinner to rest from 
conversation and tobacco smoke, there were visitors 
there too, and she almost wept in despair. And 
when they began to get ready to go in the evening, 
she was so pleased they were going at last, that she 
said: 


At Home 269 


“Do stay a little longer.” 

She felt exhausted by the visitors and constrained 
by their presence; yet every day, as soon as it began 
to grow dark, something drew her out of the house, 
and she went out to pay visits either at the works or 
at some neighbours’, and then there were cards, danc- 
ing, forfeits, suppers. . . . The young people in the 
works or in the mines sometimes sang Little Russian 
songs, and sang them very well. It made one sad 
to hear them sing. Or they all gathered together 
in one room and talked in the dusk of the mines, of 
the treasures that had once been buried in the 
steppes, of Saur’s Grave. . . . Later on, as they 
talked, a shout of ‘“‘ Help!” sometimes reached 
them. It was a drunken man going home, or some 
one was being robbed by the pit near by. Or 
the wind howled in the chimneys, the shutters 
banged; then, soon afterwards, they would hear the 
uneasy church bell, as the snow-storm began. 

At all the evening parties, picnics, and dinners, 
Auntie Dasha was invariably the most interesting 
woman and the doctor the most interesting man. 
There was very little reading either at the works 
or at the country-houses; they played only marches 
and polkas; and the young people always argued 
hotly about things they did not understand, and the 
effect was crude. The discussions were loud and 
heated, but, strange to say, Vera had nowhere else 
met people so indifferent and careless as these. 
They seemed to have no fatherland, no religion, no 


270) The Tales of Chekhov 
public interests. When they talked of literature or 


debated some abstract question, it could be seen 
from Dr. Neshtchapov’s face that the question had 
no interest for him whatever, and that for long, 
long years he had read nothing and cared to read 
nothing. Serious and expressionless, like a badly 
painted portrait, for ever in his white waistcoat, he 
was silent and incomprehensible as before; but the 
ladies, young and old, thought him interesting and 
were enthusiastic over his manners. They envied 
Vera, who appeared to attract him very much. And 
Vera always came away from the visits with a feel- 
ing of vexation, vowing inwardly to remain at home; 
but the day passed, the evening came, and she hur- 
ried off to the works again, and it was like that al- 
most all the winter. 

She ordered books and magazines, and used to 
read them in her room. And she read at night, 
lying in bed. When the clock in the corridor struck 
two or three, and her temples were beginning to ache 
from reading, she sat up in bed and thought, ‘* What 
amItodo? Where amIto go?” Accursed, im- 
portunate question, to which there were a number of 
ready-made answers, and in reality no answer at all. 

Oh, how noble, how holy, how picturesque it must 
be to serve the people, to alleviate their sufferings, 
to enlighten them! But she, Vera, did not know 
the people. And how could she gotothem? ‘They 
were strange and uninteresting to her; she could not 
endure the stuffy smell of the huts, the pot-house 


At Home 271 


oaths, the unwashed children, the women’s talk of 
illnesses. To walk over the snow-drifts, to feel 
cold, then to sit in a stifling hut, to teach children 
she disliked — no, she would rather die! And to 
teach the peasants’ children while Auntie Dasha 
made money out of the pot-houses and fined the 
peasants — it was too great a farce! What a lot 
of talk there was of schools, of village libraries, of 
universal education; but if all these engineers, these 
mine-owners and ladies of her acquaintance, had not 
been hypocrites, and really had believed that en- 
lightenment was necessary, they would not have paid 
the schoolmasters fifteen roubles a month as they 
did now, and would not have let them go hungry. 
And the schools and the talk about ignorance — it 
was all only to stifle the voice of conscience because 
they were ashamed to own fifteen or thirty thou- 
sand acres and to be indifferent to the peasants’ lot. 
Here the ladies said about Dr. Neshtchapov that he 
was a kind man and had built a school at the works. 
Yes, he had built a school out of the old bricks at 
the works for some eight hundred roubles, and they 
sang the prayer for ‘long life” to him when the 
building was opened, but there was no chance of 
his giving up his shares, and it certainly never en- 
tered his head that the peasants were human beings 
like himself, and that they, too, needed university 
teaching, and not merely lessons in these wretched 
schools. 

And Vera felt full of anger against herself and 


272 The Tales of Chekhov 


every one else. She took up a book again and tried 
to read it, but soon afterwards sat down and thought 
again. To become a doctor? But to do that one 
must pass an examination in Latin; besides, she had 
an invincible repugnance to corpses and disease. It 
would be nice to become a mechanic, a judge, a com- 
mander of a steamer, a scientist; to do something 
into which she could put all her powers, physical and 
spiritual, and to be tired out and sleep soundly at 
night; to give up her life to something that would 
make her an interesting person, able to attract inter- 
esting people, to love, to have a real family of her 
own. .. . But what was she to do? How was she 
to begin? 

One Sunday in Lent her aunt came into her room 
early in the morning to fetch her umbrella. Vera 
was sitting up in bed clasping her head in her hands, 
thinking. 

‘“You ought to go to church, darling,” said her 
aunt, “ or people will think you are not a believer.” 

Vera made no answer. 

‘“‘T see you are dull, poor child,” said Auntie 
Dasha, sinking on her knees by the bedside; she 
adored Vera. ‘‘ Tell me the truth, are you bored?” 

“ Dreadfully.” 

‘““My beauty, my queen, I am your willing slave, 
I wish you nothing but good and happiness. . . 
Tell me, why don’t you want to marry Nestchapov? 
What more do you want, my child? You must for- 
~ give me, darling; you can’t pick and choose like this, 


At Home p57 


we are not princes. . . . Time is passing, you are 
not seventeen. ... And I don’t understand it! 
He loves you, idolises you! ” 

“Oh, mercy!’ said Vera with vexation. ‘ How 
can I tell? He sits dumb and never says a 
word.” 

‘“‘He’s shy, darling. . . . He’s afraid you'll re- 
fuse him! ” 

And when her aunt had gone away, Vera re- 
mained standing in the middle of her room uncer- 
tain whether to dress or to go back to bed. The 
bed was hateful; if one looked out of the window 
there were the bare trees, the grey snow, the hateful 
jackdaws, the pigs that her grandfather would 
eaeeeots: 

“Yes, after all, perhaps I’d better get married! ” 
she thought. 


III 


For two days Auntie Dasha went about with a 
tear-stained and heavily powdered face, and at din- 
ner she kept sighing and looking towards the ikon. 
And it was impossible to make out what was the 
matter with her. But at last she made up her mind, 
went in to Vera, and said in a casual way: 

“The fact is, child, we have to pay interest on 
the bank loan, and the tenant hasn’t paid his rent. 
Will you let me pay it out of the fifteen thousand 
your papa left you?” 


274 The Tales of Chekhov 


All day afterwards Auntie Dasha spent in making 
cherry jam in the garden. Alyona, with her cheeks 
flushed with the heat, ran to and from the garden 
to the house and back again to the cellar. 

When Auntie Dasha was making jam with a very. 
serious face as though she were performing a relig- 
ious rite, and her short sleeves displayed her strong, 
little, despotic hands and arms, and when the serv- 
ants ran about incessantly, bustling about the jam 
which they would never taste, there was always a 
feeling of martyrdom in the air... . 

The garden smelt of hot cherries. The sun had 
set, the charcoal stove had been carried away, but 
the pleasant, sweetish smell still lingered in the air. 
Vera sat on a bench in the garden and watched a 
new labourer, a young soldier, not of the neigh- 
bourhood, who was, by her express orders, making 
new paths. He was cutting the turf ved a spade 
and heaping it up on a barrow. 

“Where were you serving?” Vera asked him. 

‘“* At Berdyansk.” 

“And where are you going now? Home?” 

‘“No,” answered the labourer. “I have no 
home.” 

‘But where were you born and brought up?” 

“In the province of Oryol. Till I went into the 
army I lived with my mother, in my step-father’s 
house; my mother was the head of the house, and 
people looked up to her, and while she lived I was 
cared for. But while I was in the army I got a 


At Home 275 


letter telling me my mother was dead... . And 
now I don’t seem to care to go home. It’s not my 
own father, so it’s not like my own home.” 

“Then your father is dead?” 

“T don’t know. I am illegitimate.” 

At that moment Auntie Dasha appeared at the 
window and said: 

“Tl ne faut pas parler aux gens. . . . Go into 
the kitchen, my good man. You can tell your story 
there,’ she said to the soldier. 

And then came as yesterday and every day sup- 
per, reading, a sleepless night, and endless think- 
ing about the same thing. At three o’clock the sun 
rose; Alyona was already busy in the corridor, and 
Vera was not asleep yet and was trying to read. 
She heard the creak of the barrow: it was the new 
labourer at work in the garden. . . . Vera sat at 
the open window with a book, dozed, and watched 
the soldier making the paths for her, and that in- 
terested her. The paths were as even and level as 
a leather strap, and it was pleasant to imagine what 
they would be like when they were strewn with 
yellow sand. 

She could see her aunt come out of the house soon 
after five o’clock, in a pink wrapper and curl-papers. 
She stood on the steps for three minutes without 
speaking, and then said to the soldier: 

‘“Take your passport and go in peace. I can’t 
have any one illegitimate in my house.” 

An oppressive, angry feeling sank like a stone on 


276 The Tales of Chekhov 


Vera’s heart. She was indignant with her aunt, she 
hated her; she was so sick of her aunt that her heart 
was full of misery and loathing. But what was she 
to do? To stop her mouth? To be rude to her? 
But what would be the use? Suppose she struggled 
with her, got rid of her, made her harmless, pre- 
vented her grandfather from flourishing his stick — 
what would be the use of it? It would be like killing 
One mouse or one snake in the boundless steppe. 
The vast expanse, the long winters, the monotony 
and dreariness of life, instil a sense of helplessness; 
the position seems hopeless, and one wants to do 
nothing — everything is useless. 

Alyona came in, and bowing low to Vera, began 
carrying out the arm-chairs to beat the dust out of 
them. 

‘You have chosen a time to clean up,” said Vera 
with annoyance. ‘‘ Go away.” 

Alyona was overwhelmed, and in her terror could 
not understand what was wanted of her. She be- 
gan hurriedly tidying up the dressing-table. 

“Go out of the room, I tell you,’’ Vera shouted, 
turning cold; she had never had such an oppressive 
feeling before. ‘Go away!” 

Alyona uttered a sort of moan, like a bird, and 
dropped Vera’s gold watch on the carpet. 

‘““Go away!” Vera shrieked in a voice not her 
own, leaping up and trembling all over. ‘“ Send her 
away; she worries me to death! ” she went on, walk- 
ing rapidly after Alyona down the passage, stamp- 


At Home 27 


ing her feet. ‘‘Goaway! Birch her! Beat her!” 

Then suddenly she came to herself, and just as 
she was, unwashed, uncombed, in her dressing-gown 
and slippers, she rushed out of the house. She ran 
to the familiar ravine and hid herself there among 
the sloe-trees, so that she might see no one and be 
seen by no one. Lying there motionless on the 
grass, she did not weep, she was not horror-stricken, 
but gazing at the sky open-eyed, she reflected coldly 
and clearly that something had happened which she 
could never forget and for which she could never 
forgive herself all her life. 

““ No, I can’t go on like this,” she thought. “ It’s 
time to take myself in hand, or there'll be no end 
fonts. canto onlike this.).,. < 

At midday Dr. Neshtchapov drove by the ravine 
on his way to the house. She saw him and made 
up her mind that she would begin a new life, and 
that she would make herself begin it, and this de- 
cision calmed her. And following with her eyes 
the doctor’s well-built figure, she said, as though 
trying to soften the crudity of her decision: 

“iae's a nice man... . We shall get through 
life somehow.” 

She returned home. While she was dressing, 
Auntie Dasha came into the room, and said: 

‘“ Alyona upset you, darling; I’ve sent her home 
to the village. Her mother’s given her a good 
beating and has come here, crying.” 


‘* Auntie,” said Vera quickly, “I’m going to 


278 The Tales of Chekhov 


marry Dr. Neshtchapoy. Only talk to him your- 
Sele ls, te Lame 

And again she went out into the fields. And 
wandering aimlessly about, she made up her mind 
that when she was married she would look after 
the house, doctor the peasants, teach in the school, 
that she would do all the things that other women 
of her circle did. And this perpetual dissatisfac- 
tion with herself and every one else, this series of 
crude mistakes which stand up like a mountain be- 
fore one whenever one looks back upon one’s past, 
she would accept as her real life to which she was 
fated, and she would expect nothing better... . 
Of course there was nothing better! Beautiful na- 
ture, dreams, music, told one story, but reality an- 
other. Evidently truth and happiness existed some- 
where outside real life. . . . One must give up one’s 
own life and merge oneself into this luxuriant steppe, 
boundless and indifferent as eternity, with its flow- 
ers, its ancient barrows, and its distant horizon, and 
then it would be well with one. . 

A month later Vera was living at the works. 


EXPENSIVE LESSONS 





EXPENSIVE LESSONS 


For a cultivated man to be ignorant of foreign lan- 
guages is a great inconvenience. Vorotov became 
acutely conscious of it when, after taking his degree, 
he began upon a piece of research work. 

‘“Tt’s awful,” he said, breathing hard (although 
he was only twenty-six he was fat, heavy, and suf- 
fered from shortness of breath). 

“It’s awful! Without languages I’m like a bird 
without wings. I might just as well give up the 
work.” 

And he made up his mind at all costs to overcome 
his innate laziness, and to learn French and Ger- 
man; and began to look out for a teacher. 

One winter noon, as Vorotov was sitting in his 
study at work, the servant told him that a young lady 
was inquiring for him. 

** Ask her in,” said Vorotov. 

And a young lady elaborately dressed in the last 
fashion walked in. She introduced herself as 
a teacher of French, Alice Osipovna Enquéte, and 
told Vorotov that she had been sent to him by one 
of his friends. 

“Delighted! Please sit down,” said Vorotov, 
breathing hard and putting his hand over the collar 


of his nightshirt (to breathe more freely he always 
281 


282 The Tales of Chekhov 


wore a nightshirt at work instead of a stiff linen one 
with collar). “It was Pyotr Sergeitch sent you? 
Yes, yes . . . I asked him about it. Delighted!” 

As he talked to Mdlle. Enquéte he looked at her 
shyly and with curiosity. She was a genuine French- 
woman, very elegant and still quite young. Judg- 
ing from her pale, languid face, her short curly hair, 
and her unnaturally slim waist, she might have been 
eighteen; but looking at her broad, well-developed 
shoulders, the elegant lines of her back and her se- 
vere eyes, Vorotov thought that she was not less 
than three-and-twenty and might be twenty-five; but 
then again he began to think she was not more than 
eighteen. Her face looked as cold and business-like 
as the face of a person who has come to speak about 
money. She did not once smile or frown, and only 
once a look of perplexity flitted over her face when 
she learnt that she was not required to teach chil- 
dren, but a stout grown-up man. 

‘So, Alice Osipovna,”’ said Vorotov, ‘‘ we'll have 
a lesson every evening from seven to eight. As 
regards your terms—a rouble a lesson— I’ve 
nothing to say against that. By all means let it be 
a rouble. 2.” 

And he asked her if she would not have some 
tea or coffee, whether it was a fine day, and with a 
good-natured smile, stroking the baize of the table, 
he inquired in a friendly voice who she was, where 
she had studied, and what she lived on. 

With a cold, business-like expression, Alice Osi- 


Expensive Lessons 283 


povna answered that she had completed her studies 
at a private school and had the diploma of a private 
teacher, that her father had died lately of scarlet 
fever, that her mother was alive and made artificial 
flowers; that she, Mdlle. Enquéte, taught in a pri- 
vate school till dinnertime, and after dinner was busy 
till evening giving lessons in different good families. 

She went away leaving behind her the faint fra- 
grance of a woman’s clothes. For a long time 
afterwards Vorotov could not settle to work, but, 
sitting at the table stroking its green baize surface, 
he meditated. 

“It’s very pleasant to see a girl working to earn 
her own living,” he thought. ‘‘ On the other hand, 
it’s very unpleasant to think that poverty should not 
spare such elegant and pretty girls as Alice Osi- 
povna, and that she, too, should have to struggle for 
existence. It’s a sad thing!” 

Having never seen virtuous Frenchwomen before, 
he reflected also that this elegantly dressed young 
lady with her well-developed shoulders and exag- 
geratedly small waist in ail probability followed an- 
other calling as well as giving French lessons. 

The next evening when the clock pointed to five 
minutes to seven, Mdlle. Enquéte appeared, rosy 
from the frost. She opened Margot, which she had 
brought with her, and without introduction began: 

‘“‘French grammar has twenty-six letters. The 
first letter is called 4, the second B .. .” 

‘“‘ Excuse me,” Vorotov interrupted, smiling. “I 


284 The Tales of Chekhov 


must warn you, mademoiselle, that you must change 
your method a little in my case. You see, I know 
Russian, Greek, and Latin well. . . . I’ve studied 
comparative philology, and I think we might omit 
Margot and pass straight to reading some author.” 

And he explained to the French girl how 
grown-up people learn languages. 

‘““ A friend of mine,” he said, ‘‘ wanting to learn 
modern languages, laid before him the French, Ger- 
man, and Latin gospels, and read them side by side, 
carefully analysing each word, and would you be- 
lieve it, he attained his object in less than a year. 
Let us do the same. We'll take some author and 
read him.” 

The French girl looked at him in perplexity. Evi- 
dently the suggestion seemed to her very naive and 
ridiculous. If this strange proposal had been made 
to her by a child, she would certainly have been 
angry and have scolded it, but as he was a grown-up 
man and very stout and she could not scold him, she 
only shrugged her shoulders hardly perceptibly and 
said: 

‘‘ As you please.” 

Vorotov rummaged in his bookcase and picked 
out a dog’s-eared French book. 

“Will this do?” 

“It’s all the same,” she said. 

‘In that case let us begin, and good luck to it! 
Let’s begin with the title . . . ‘ Mémoires.’ ” 

‘* Reminiscences,’’ Mdlle. Enquéte translated. 


Expensive Lessons 285 


With a good-natured smile, breathing hard, he 
spent a quarter of an hour over the word ‘“ Me- 
moires,” and as much over the word de, and this 
wearied the young lady. She answered his ques- 
tions languidly, grew confused, and evidently did not 
-understand her pupil well, and did not attempt to 
understand him. Vorotov asked her questions, and 
at the same time kept looking at her fair hair and 
thinking: 

Her hair isn’t naturally curly; she curls it. It’s 
a strange thing! She works from morning to night, 
and yet she has time to curl her hair.” 

At eight o’clock precisely she got up, and saying 
coldly and dryly, ‘ Au revoir, monsieur,” walked 
out of the study, leaving behind her the same tender, 
delicate, disturbing fragrance. For a long time 
again her pupil did nothing; he sat at the table 
meditating. 

During the days that followed he became con- 
vinced that his teacher was a charming, conscien- 
tious, and precise young lady, but that she was very 
badly educated, and incapable of teaching grown-up 
people, and he made up his mind not to waste his 
time, to get rid of her, and to engage another 
teacher. When she came the seventh time he took 
out of his pocket an envelope with seven roubles in 
it, and holding it in his hand, became very confused 
and began: 

‘Excuse me, Alice Osipovna, but I ought to tell 
youre. lWimunder pamtul necessity <i." 


286 The Tales of Chekhov 


Seeing the envelope, the French girl guessed what 
was meant, and for the first time during their les- 
sons her face quivered and her cold, business-like 
expression vanished. She coloured a little, and 
dropping her eyes, began nervously fingering her 
slender gold chain. And Vorotoy, seeing her per- 
turbation, realised how much a rouble meant to her, 
and how bitter it would be to her to lose what she 
was earning. 

‘T ought to tell you,” he muttered, growing more 
and more confused, and quavering inwardly; he hur- 
riedly stuffed the envelope into his pocket and went 
on: “.Excuse.me,.1..;. .' I must leave, you. fog jten 
minutes.” 

And trying to appear as though he had not in the 
least meant to get rid of her, but only to ask her 
permission to leave her for a short time, he went 
into the next room and sat there for ten minutes. 
And then he returned more embarrassed than ever: 
it struck him that she might have interpreted his 
brief absence in some way of her own, and he felt 
awkward. 

The lessons began again. Vorotov felt no inter- 
est in them. Realising that he would gain nothing 
from the lessons, he gave the French girl liberty to 
do as she liked, asking her nothing and not inter- 
rupting her. She translated away as she pleased 
ten pages during a lesson, and he did not listen, 
breathed hard, and having nothing better to do, 
gazed at her curly head, or her soft white hands or 


Expensive Lessons 287 


her neck and sniffed the fragrance of her clothes. 

He caught himself thinking very unsuitable 
thoughts, and felt ashamed, or he was moved to 
tenderness, and then he felt vexed and wounded that 
she was so cold and business-like with him, and 
treated him as a pupil, never smiling and seeming 
afraid that he might accidentally touch her. He 
kept wondering how to inspire her with confidence 
and get to know her better, and to help her, to make 
her understand how badly she taught, poor thing. 

One day Mdlle. Enquéte came to the lesson in a 
smart pink dress, slightly décolletée, and surrounded 
by such a fragrance that she seemed to be wrapped 
in a cloud, and, if one blew upon her, ready to fly 
away into the air or melt away like smoke. She 
apologised and said she could stay only half an hour 
for the lesson, as she was going straight from the 
lesson to a dance. 

He looked at her throat and the back of her bare 
neck, and thought he understood why Frenchwomen 
had the reputation of frivolous creatures easily se- 
duced; he was carried away by this cloud of fra- 
grance, beauty, and bare flesh, while she, uncon- 
scious of his thoughts and probably not in the least 
interested in them, rapidly turned over the pages 
and translated at full steam: 

“He was walking the street and meeting a gen- 
tleman his friend and saying, ‘‘ Where are you striv- 
ing to seeing your face so pale it makes me sad.”’’” 

The ‘ Mémoires” had long been finished, and 


288 The Tales of Chekhov 


now Alice was translating some other book. One 
day she came an hour too early for the lesson, apol- 
ogizing and saying that she wanted to leave at seven 
and go to the Little Theatre. Seeing her out after 
the lesson, Vorotov dressed and went to the theatre 
himself. He went, and fancied that he was going 
simply for change and amusement, and that he was 
not thinking about Alice at all. He could not admit 
that a serious man, preparing for a learned career, 
lethargic in his habits, could fling up his work and go 
to the theatre simply to meet there a girl he knew 
very little, who was unintelligent and utterly unintel- 
lectual. 

Yet for some reason his heart was beating during 
the intervals, and without realizing what he was 
doing, he raced about the corridors and foyer like 
a boy impatiently looking for some one, and he was 
disappointed when the interval was over. And 
when he saw the familiar pink dress and the hand- 
some shoulders under the tulle, his heart quivered 
as though with a foretaste of happiness; he smiled 
joyfully, and for the first time in his life experienced 
the sensation of jealousy. 

Alice was walking with two unattractive-looking 
students and an officer. She was laughing, talking 
loudly, and obviously flirting. Vorotov had never 
seen her like that. She was evidently happy, con- 
tented, warm, sincere. What for? Why? Per- 
haps because these men were her friends and be- 
longed to her own circle. And Vorotoy felt there 


Expensive Lessons 289 


was a terrible gulf between himself and that circle. 
He bowed to his teacher, but she gave him a chilly 
nod and walked quickly by; she evidently did not 
care for her friends to know that she had pupils, 
and that she had to give lessons to earn money. 

After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov realised 
that he was in love. .. . During the subsequent 
lessons he feasted his eyes on his elegant teacher, 
and without struggling with himself, gave full rein 
to his imaginations, pure and impure. Mdlle. En- 
quéte’s face did not cease to be cold; precisely at 
eight o’clock every evening she said coldly, “ Au 
revoir, monsieur,” and he felt she cared nothing 
about him, and never would care anything about him, 
and that his position was hopeless. 

Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would be- 
gin dreaming, hoping, making plans. He inwardly 
composed declarations of love, remembered that 
Frenchwomen were frivolous and easily won, but it 
was enough for him to glance at the face of his 
teacher for his ideas to be extinguished as a candle 
is blown out when you bring it into the wind on the 
verandah. Once, overcome, forgetting himself as 
though in delirium, he could not restrain himself, 
and barred her way as she was going from the study 
into the entry after the lesson, and, gasping for 
breath and stammering, began to declare his love: 

“You are dearto me! I ...IIlove you! AI- 
low me to speak.” 

And Alice turned pale — probably from dismay, 


290 The Tales of Chekhov 


reflecting that after this declaration she could not 
come here again and get a rouble a lesson. With 
a frightened look in her eyes she said in a loud 
whisper: 

‘““ Ach, you mustn’t! Don’t speak, I entreat you! 
You mustn’t!” 

And Vorotoy did not sleep all night afterwards; 
he was tortured by shame; he blamed himself and 
thought intensely. It seemed to him that he had 
insulted the girl by his declaration, that she would 
not come to him again. 

He resolved to find out her address from the ad- 
dress bureau in the morning, and to write her a let- 
ter of apology. But Alice came without a letter. 
For the first minute she felt uncomfortable, then she 
opened a book and began briskly and rapidly trans- 
lating as usual: 

“* Oh, young gentleman, don’t tear those flowers 
in my garden which I want to be giving to my ill 
daughtem. 204)" 


She still comes to this day. Four books have al- 
ready been translated, but Vorotov knows no French 
but the word ‘‘ Mémoires,’’ and when he is asked 
about his literary researches, he waves his hand, 
and without answering, turns the conversation to the 
weather. 


THE PRINCESS 






















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se ab wi \ a “ptt Way. 


oe) bees 






me We i : fi 
Pema MN aes ete oh. no 
nine, ty ree i; ’ A: ie 
Pg nr Py ote a ee “lg ae ach sult nae : Ie 
rae | a Ae ee Ms iris WP: " fees Sarre 
ay mba: th tii at ae ar MIE vhs 
Tikes rs ee, rey mo A rae) A a er 
Re caw ai eG i a Li 


h ie: para ihe 














wat ; mt Da 
he ain Al " He * hls K ay 


oy ay if ne . 
Stal 
a 





ha A ie y 








jie) 


i seh i 


THE PRINCESS 


A CARRIAGE with four fine sleek horses drove in 
at the big so-called Red Gate of the N Mon- 
astery. While it was still at a distance, the priests 
and monks who were standing in a group round the 
part of the hostel allotted to the gentry, recognised 
by the coachman and horses that the lady in the 
carriage was Princess Vera Gavrilovna, whom they 
knew very well. 

An old man in livery jumped off the box and 
helped the princess to get out of the carriage. She 
raised her dark veil and moved in a leisurely way 
up to the priests to receive their blessing; then she 
nodded pleasantly to the rest of the monks and went 
into the hostel. 

‘“‘ Well, have you missed your princess?’ she said 
to the monk who brought in her things. “It’s a 
whole month since I’ve been to see you. But here 
I am; behold your princess. And where is the 
Father Superior? My goodness, I am burning with 
impatience! Wonderful, wonderful old man! You 
must be proud of having such a Superior.” 

When the Father Superior came in, the princess 
uttered a shriek of delight, crossed her arms over 
her bosom, and went up to receive his blessing. 

‘““ No, no, let me kiss your hand,” she said, snatch- 

203 





204 The Tales of Chekhov 


ing it and eagerly kissing it three times. ‘“‘ How 
glad I am to see you at last, holy Father! I’m sure 
you've forgotten your princess, but my thoughts 
have been in your dear monastery every moment. 
How delightful it is here! This living for God far 
from the busy, giddy world has a special charm of 
its own, holy Father, which I feel with my whole 
soul although I cannot express it! ” 

The princess’s cheeks glowed and tears came into 
her eyes. She talked incessantly, fervently, while 
the Father Superior, a grave, plain, shy old man of 
seventy, remained mute or uttered abruptly, like a 
soldier on duty, phrases such as: 

~ Certainly, Your Excellency. .... Quite soy 
understand.” 

“Has Your Excellency come for a long stay?” 
he inquired. 

“IT shall stay the night here, and to-morrow I’m 
going on to Klavida Nikolaevna’s — it’s a long time 
since I’ve seen her — and the day after to-morrow 
I'll come back to you and stay three or four days. 
I want to rest my soul here among’ you, holy 
Fathers 252) 2" 

The princess liked being at the monastery at 
N For the last two years it had been a 
favourite resort of hers; she used to go there al- 
most every month in the summer and stay two or 
three days, even sometimes a week. The shy nov- 
ices, the stillness, the low ceilings, the smell of 
cypress, the modest fare, the cheap curtains on the 





The Princess 205 


windows — all this touched her, softened her, and 
disposed her to contemplation and good thoughts. 
It was enough for her to be half an hour in the 
hostel for her to feel that she, too, was timid and 
modest, and that she, too, smelt of cypress-wood. 
The past retreated into the background, lost its 
significance, and the princess began to imagine that 
in spite of her twenty-nine years she was very much 
like the old Father Superior, and that, like him, she 
was created not for wealth, not for earthly grandeur 
and love, but for a peaceful life secluded from the 
world, a life in twilight like the hostel. 

It happens that a ray of light gleams in the dark 
cell of the anchorite absorbed in prayer, or a bird 
alights on the window and sings its song; the stern 
anchorite will smile in spite of himself, and a gentle, 
sinless joy will pierce through the load of grief over 
his sins, like water flowing from under a stone. 
The princess fancied she brought from the outside 
world just such comfort as the ray of light or the 
bird. Her gay, friendly smile, her gentle eyes, her 
voice, her jests, her whole personality in fact, her 
little graceful figure always dressed in simple black, 
must arouse in simple, austere people a feeling of 
tenderness and joy. Every one, looking at her, 
must think: ‘‘God has sent us an angel... .” 
And feeling that no one could help thinking hike 
she smiled still more cordially, and tried to look 
like a bird. 

After drinking tea and resting, she went for a 


296 The Tales of Chekhov 


walk. The sun was already setting. From the 
monastery garden came a moist fragrance of freshly 
watered mignonette, and from the church floated 
the soft singing of men’s voices, which seemed very 
pleasant and mournful in the distance. It was the 
evening service. In the dark windows where the 
little lamps glowed gently, in the shadows, in the 
figure of the old monk sitting at the church door 
with a collecting-box, there was such unruffled peace 
that the princess felt moved to tears. 

Outside the gate, in the walk between the wall and 
the birch-trees where there were benches, it was 
quite evening. The air grew rapidly darker and 
darker. The princess went along the walk, sat on 
a seat, and sank into thought. 

She thought how good it would be to settle down 
for her whole life in this monastery where life was 
as still and unruffled as a summer evening; how good 
it would be to forget the ungrateful, dissipated 
prince; to forget her immense estates, the creditors 
who worried her every day, her misfortunes, her 
maid Dasha, who had looked at her impertinently 
that morning. It would be nice to sit here on the 
bench all her life and watch through the trunks of 
the birch-trees the evening mist gathering in wreaths 
in the valley below; the rooks flying home in a black 
cloud like a veil far, far away above the forest; 
two novices, one astride a piebald horse, another on 
foot driving out the horses for the night and rejoic- 
ing in their freedom, playing pranks like little chil- 


The Princess 297 


dren; their youthful voices rang out musically in the 
still air, and she could distinguish every word. It 
is nice to sit and listen to the silence: at one moment 
the wind blows and stirs the tops of the birch-trees, 
then a frog rustles in last year’s leaves, then the 
clock on the belfry strikes the quarter. . . . One 
might sit without moving, listen and think, and 
Sehinks i") 

An old woman passed by with a wallet on her 
back.. The princess thought that it would be nice 
to stop the old woman and to say something friendly 
and cordial to her, to help her. . . . But the old 
woman turned the corner without once looking 
round. 

Not long afterwards a tall man with a grey beard 
and a straw hat came along the walk. When he 
came up to the princess, he took off his hat and 
bowed. From the bald patch on his head and his 
sharp, hooked nose the princess recognised him as 
the doctor, Mihail Ivanovitch, who had been in her 
service at Dubovki. She remembered that some one 
had told her that his wife had died the year before, 
and she wanted to sympathise with him, to console 
him. 

‘Doctor, I expect you don’t recognise me?”’ she 
said with an affable smile. 

“Yes, Princess, I recognised you,” said the doc- 
tor, taking off his hat again. 

‘Oh, thank you; I was afraid that you, too, had 
forgotten your princess. People only remember 


298 The Tales of Chekhov 


their enemies, but they forget their friends. Have 
you, too, come to pray?” 

‘‘T am the doctor here, and I have to spend the 
night at the monastery every Saturday.” 

‘“ Well, how are you?” said the princess, sighing. 
“I hear that you have lost your wife. What a 
calamity! ”’ 

“Yes, Princess, for me it is a great calamity.” 

‘“There’s nothing for it! We must bear our 
troubles with resignation. Not one hair of a man’s 
head is lost without the Divine Will.” 

** Yes, Princess.” 

To the princess’s friendly, gentle smile and her 
sighs the doctor responded coldly and dryly: “ Yes, 
Princess.” And the expression of his face was cold 
and dry. 

‘What else can I say to him?” she wondered. 

“ How long it is since we met!” she said. ‘‘ Five 
years! How much water has flowed under the 
bridge, how many changes in that time; it quite 
frightens one to think of it! You know, I am mar- 
ried. . . . I am not a countess now, but a princess. 
And by now I am separated from my husband 
too.” 

pukses.»Laheard.so.y. 

‘““God has sent me many trials. No doubt you 
have heard, too, that I am almost ruined. My 
Dubovki, Sofyino, and Kiryakovo have all been sold 
for my unhappy husband’s debts. And I have only 
Baranovo and Mihaltsevo left. It’s terrible to look 


The Princess 299 


back: how many changes and misfortunes of all 
kinds, how many mistakes! ”’ 

“Yes, Princess, many mistakes.”’ 

The princess was a little disconcerted. She knew 
her mistakes; they were all of such a private char- 
acter that no one but she could think or speak of 
them. She could not resist asking: 

‘““What mistakes are you thinking about?” 

“You referred to them, so you know them. . . 
answered the doctor, and he smiled. ‘‘ Why talk 
about them! ”’ 

‘No; tell me, doctor. I shall be very grateful 
to you. And please don’t stand on ceremony with 
me. I love to hear the truth.” 

‘“‘T am not your judge, Princess.”’ 

“Not my judge! What a tone you take! You 
must know something about me. ‘Tell me!” 

‘If you really wish it, very well. Only I regret 
to say I’m not clever at talking, and people can’t al- 
ways understand me.” 

The doctor thought a moment and began: 

“A lot of mistakes; but the most important of 
them, in my opinion, was the general spirit that pre- 
vailed on all your estates. You see, I don’t know 
how to express myself. I mean chiefly the lack of 
love, the aversion for people that was felt in abso- 
lutely everything. Your whole system of life was 
built upon that aversion. Aversion for the human 
voice, for faces, for heads, steps . . . in fact, for 
everything that makes up a human being. At all 


” 


300 The Tales of Chekhov 


the doors and on the stairs there stand sleek, rude, 
and lazy grooms in livery to prevent badly dressed 
persons from entering the house; in the hall there 
are chairs with high backs so that the footmen wait- 
ing there, during balls and receptions, may not soil 
the walls with their heads; in every room there are. 
thick carpets that no human step may be heard; every 
one who comes in is infallibly warned to speak as 
softly and as little as possible, and to say nothing 
that might have a disagreeable effect on the nerves 
or the imagination. And in your room you don’t 
shake hands with any one or ask him to sit down — 
just as you didn’t shake hands with me or ask me 
tor sit down. 275%.) 

“By all means, if you like,” said the princess, 
smiling and holding out her hand. “ Really, to be 
cross about«such ‘trifless 3; /2.27 

‘““But I am not cross,’ laughed the doctor, but 
at once he flushed, took off his hat, and waving 
it about, began hotly: ‘‘ To be candid, I’ve long 
wanted an opportunity to tell you all I think... . 
That is, I want to tell you that you look upon the 
mass of mankind from the Napoleonic standpoint 
as food for the cannon. But Napoleon had at least 
some idea; you have nothing except aversion.” 

‘‘T have an aversion for people?” smiled the 
princess, shrugging her shoulders in astonishment. 
riabchavel?’ 

“Yes, you! You want facts? By all means. 
In Mihaltsevo three former cooks of yours, who 


The Princess 301 


have gone blind in your kitchens from the heat of 
the stove, are living upon charity. All the health 
and strength and good looks that is found on your 
hundreds of thousands of acres is taken by you and 
your parasites for your grooms, your footmen, and 
your coachmen. All these two-legged cattle are 
trained to be flunkeys, overeat themselves, grow 
coarse, lose the ‘image and likeness,’ in fact. . . 
Young doctors, agricultural experts, teachers, intel- 
lectual workers generally — think of it! — are torn 
away from their honest work and forced for a crust 
of bread to take part in all sorts of mummeries which 
make every decent man feel ashamed! Some young 
men cannot be in your service for three years with- 
out becoming hypocrites, toadies, sneaks. . . . Is 
that a good thing? Your Polish superintendents, 
those abject spies, all those Kazimers and Kaetans, 
go hunting about on your hundreds of thousands of 
acres from morning to night, and to please you try 
to get three skins off one ox. Excuse me, I speak 
disconnectedly, but that doesn’t matter. You don’t 
look upon the simple people as human beings. 
And even the princes, counts, and bishops who used 
to come and see you, you looked upon simply as dec- 
orative figures, not as living beings. But the worst 
of all, the thing that most revolts me, is having a 
fortune of over a million and doing nothing for 
other people, nothing! ” 

The princess sat amazed, aghast, offended, not 
knowing what to say or how to behave. She had 


302 The Tales of Chekhov 


never before been spoken to in such a tone. (The 
doctor’s unpleasant, angry voice and his clumsy, fal- 
tering phrases made a harsh clattering noise in her 
ears and her head. Then she began to feel as 
though the gesticulating doctor was hitting her on 
the head with his hat. 

“Tt’s not true!” she articulated softly, in an im- 


ploring voice. ‘‘ I’ve done a great deal of good for 
other people; you know it yourself!” 
“Nonsense!” cried the doctor. ‘‘ Can you pos- 


sibly go on thinking of your philanthropic work as 
something genuine and useful, and not a mere mum- 
mery? It was a farce from beginning to end; it 
was playing at loving your neighbour, the most open 
farce which even children and stupid peasant women 
saw through! ‘Take for instance your — what was 
it called? — house for homeless old women with- 
out relations, of which you made me something like 
a head doctor, and of which you were the patroness. 
Mercy on us! What a charming institution it was! 
A house was built with parquet floors and a weather- 
cock on the roof; a dozen old women were col- 
lected from the villages and made to sleep under 
blankets and sheets of Dutch linen, and given toffee 
to eat.” 

The doctor gave a malignant chuckle into his 
hat, and went on speaking rapidly and stammer- 
ing: 

“Tt was a farce! The attendants kept the sheets 
and the blankets under lock and key, for fear the 


The Princess 303 


old women should soil them —‘ Let the old devil’s 
pepper-pots sleep on the floor.’ The old women 
did not dare to sit down on the beds, to put on 
their jackets, to walk over the polished floors. 
Everything was kept for show and hidden away 
from the old women as though they were thieves, 
and the old women were clothed and fed on the 
sly by other people’s charity, and prayed to God 
night and day to be released from their prison and 
from the canting exhortations of the sleek rascals 
to whose care you committed them. And what did 
the managersdo? Itwas simply charming! About 
twice a week there would be thirty-five thousand 
messages to say that the princess — that is, you — 
were coming to the home next day. That meant 
that next day I had to abandon my patients, dress 
up and be on parade. Very good; I arrive. The 
old women, in everything clean and new, are already 
drawn up in a row, waiting. Near them struts the 
old garrison rat—the superintendent with his 
mawkish, sneaking smile. The old women yawn 
and exchange glances, but are afraid to complain. 
We wait. The junior steward gallops up. Half 
an hour later the senior steward; then the superin- 
tendent of the accounts’ office, then another, and 
then another of them . . . they keep arriving end- 
lessly. They all have mysterious, solemn faces. 
We wait and wait, shift from one leg to another, 
look at the clock —all this in monumental silence 
because we all hate each other like poison. One 


204 The Tales of Chekhov 


hour passes, then a second, and then at last the car- 
riage 1s seen inthe distance, and < 2°. andhy 24 

The doctor went off into a shrill laugh and brought 
out in a shrill voice: 

‘“You get out of the carriage, and the old hags, 
at the word of command from the old garrison rat, 
begin chanting: ‘The Glory of our Lord in Zion 
the tongue of man cannot express... .’ A pretty 
scene, wasn’t it?” 

The doctor went off into a bass chuckle, and 
waved his hand as though to signify that he could 
not utter another word for laughing. He laughed 
heavily, harshly, with clenched teeth, as ill-natured 
people laugh; and from his voice, from his face, 
from his glittering, rather insolent eyes it could be 
seen that he had a profound contempt for the prin- 
cess, for the home, and for the old women. There 
was nothing amusing or laughable in all that he de- 
scribed so clumsily and coarsely, but he laughed with 
satisfaction, even with delight. 

‘““And the school?” he went on, panting from 
laughter. ‘“‘ Do you remember how you wanted to 
teach peasant children yourself? You must have 
taught them very well, for very soon the children all 
ran away, so that they had to be thrashed and 
bribed to come and be taught. And you remember 
how you wanted to feed with your own hands the 
infants whose mothers were working in the fields. 
You went about the village crying because the in- 
fants were not at your disposal, as the mothers would 


The Princess 305 


take them to the fields with them. Then the vil- 
lage foreman ordered the mothers by turns to leave 
their infants behind for your entertainment. A 
strange thing! ‘They all ran away from your ben- 
evolence like mice from a cat! And why was it? 
It’s very simple. Not because our people are ig- 
norant and ungrateful, as you always explained it to 
yourself, but because in all your fads, if you'll ex- 
cuse the word, there wasn’t a ha’p’orth of love and 
kindness! ‘There was nothing but the desire to 
amuse yourself with living puppets, nothing else. 
. . . A person who does not feel the difference be- 
tween a human being and a lap-dog ought not to go 
in for philanthropy. I assure you, there’s a great 
difference between human beings and lap-dogs! ” 

The princess’s heart was beating dreadfully; there 
was a thudding in her ears, and she still felt as 
though the doctor were beating her on the head with 
his hat. The doctor talked quickly, excitedly, and 
uncouthly, stammering and gesticulating unneces- 
sarily. All she grasped was that she was spoken 
to by a coarse, ill-bred, spiteful, and ungrateful man; 
but what he wanted of her and what he was talking 
about, she could not understand. 

“Go away!” she said in a tearful voice, putting 
up her hands to protect her head from the doctor’s 
hat; ‘‘ go away!” 

‘And how you treat your servants!” the doctor 
went on, indignantly. ‘‘ You treat them as the low- 
est scoundrels, and don’t look upon them as human 


306 The Tales of Chekhov 


beings. For example, allow me to ask, why did you 
dismiss me? For ten years I worked for your 
father and afterwards for you, honestly, without 
vacations or holidays. I gained the love of all for 
more than seventy miles round, and suddenly one 
fine day I am informed that I am no longer wanted. 
What for? I’ve no idea to this day. I, a doctor 
of medicine, a gentleman by birth, a student of the 
Moscow University, father of a family — am such 
a petty, insignificant insect that you can kick me out 
without explaining the reason! Why stand on cere- 
mony with me! I heard afterwards that my wife 
went without my knowledge three times to intercede 
with you for me — you wouldn't receive her. I am 
told she cried in your hall. And I shall never for- 
give her for it, never!” 

The doctor paused and clenched his teeth, mak- 
ing an intense effort to think of something more to 
say, very unpleasant and vindictive. He thought of 
something, and his cold, frowning face suddenly 
brightened. 

“Take your attitude to this monastery!” he said 
with avidity. ‘‘ You’ve never spared any one, and 
the holier the place, the more chance of its suffering 
from your loving-kindness and angelic sweetness. 
Why do you come here? What do you want with 
the monks here, allow me to ask you? What is 
Hecuba to you or you to Hecuba? It’s another 
farce, another amusement for you, another sacrilege 
against human dignity, and nothing more. Why, 


The Princess 307 


you don’t believe in the monks’ God; you’ve a God 
of your own in your heart, whom you’ve evolved for 
yourself at spiritualist séances. You look with con- 
descension upon the ritual of the Church; you don’t 
go to mass or vespers; you sleep till midday. .. . 
Why do you come here? . .. You come with a 
God of your own into a monastery you have nothing 
to do with, and you imagine that the monks look 
upon it as a very great honour. ‘To be sure they 
do! You'd better ask, by the way, what your visits 
cost the monastery. You were graciously pleased 
to arrive here this evening, and a messenger from 
your estate arrived on horseback the day before yes- 
terday to warn them of your coming. They were 
the whole day yesterday getting the rooms ready 
and expecting you. This morning your advance- 
guard arrived — an insolent maid, who keeps run- 
ning across the courtyard, rustling her skirts, pes- 
tering them with questions, giving orders... . I 
can’t endure it! The monks have been on the look- 
out all day, for if you were not met with due cere- 
mony, there would be trouble! You'd complain to 
the bishop! ‘The monks don’t like me, your holi- 
ness; I don’t know what I’ve done to displease them. 
It’s true I’m a great sinner, but I’m so unhappy!’ 
Already one monastery has been in hot water over 
you. The Father Superior is a busy, learned man; 
he hasn’t a free moment, and you keep sending for 
him to come to your rooms. Not a trace of respect 
for age or for rank! If at least you were a bounti- 


308 The Tales of Chekhov 


ful giver to the monastery, one wouldn’t resent it so 
much, but all this time the monks have not received 
a hundred roubles from you!” 

Whenever people worried the princess, misunder- 
stood her, or mortified her, and when she did not 
know what to say or do, she usually began to cry. 
And on this occasion, too, she ended by hiding her 
face in her hands and crying aloud in a thin treble 
like a child. The doctor suddenly stopped and 
looked at her. His face darkened and grew stern. 

“* Forgive me, Princess,” he said in a hollow voice. 
““T’ve given way to a malicious feeling and forgot- 
ten myself. It was not right.”’ 

And coughing in an embarrassed way, he walked 
away quickly, without remembering to put his hat 
on. 

Stars were already twinkling in the sky. The 
moon must have been rising on the further side of 
the monastery, for the sky was clear, soft, and trans- 
parent. Bats were flitting noiselessly along the white 
monastery wall. 

The clock slowly struck three quarters, probably 
a quarter to nine. The princess got up and walked 
slowly to the gate. She felt wounded and was cry- 
ing, and she felt that the trees and the stars and 
even the bats were pitying her, and that the clock 
struck musically only to express its sympathy with 
her. She cried and thought how nice it would be 
to go into a monastery for the rest of her life. On 
still summer evenings she would walk alone through 


The Princess 309 


the avenues, insulted, injured, misunderstood by peo- 
ple, and only God and the starry heavens would see 
the martyr’s tears. [he evening service was still 
going on in the church. The princess stopped and 
listened to the singing; how beautiful the singing 
sounded in the still darkness! How sweet to weep 
and suffer to the sound of that singing! 

Going into her rooms, she looked at her tear- 
stained face in the glass and powdered it, then she 
sat down to supper. The monks knew that she 
liked pickled sturgeon, little mushrooms, Malaga 
and plain honey-cakes that left a taste of cypress in 
the mouth, and every time she came they gave her all 
these dishes. As she ate the mushrooms and drank 
the Malaga, the princess dreamed of how she would 
be finally ruined and deserted — how all her stew- 
ards, bailiffs, clerks, and maid-servants for whom 
she had done so much, would be false to her, and 
begin to say rude things; how people all the world 
over would set upon her, speak ill of her, jeer at 
her. She would renounce her title, would renounce 
society and luxury, and would go into a convent with- 
out one word of reproach to any one; she would pray 
for her enemies — and then they would all under- 
stand her and come to beg her forgiveness, but by 
that time it would be too late... . 

After supper she knelt down in the corner before 
the ikon and read two chapters of the Gospel. 
Then her maid made her bed and she got into it. 
Stretching herself under the white quilt, she heaved 


310 The Tales of Chekhov 


a sweet, deep sigh, as one sighs after crying, closed 
her eyes, and began to fall asleep. 

In the morning she waked up and glanced at her 
watch. It was half-past nine. On the carpet near 
the bed was a bright, narrow streak of sunlight 
from a ray which came in at the window and dimly 
lighted up the room. Flies were buzzing behind 
the black curtain at the window. “It’s early,” 
thought the princess, and she closed her eyes. 

Stretching and lying snug in her bed, she recalled 
her meeting yesterday with the doctor and all the 
thoughts with which she had gone to sleep the night 
before: she remembered she was unhappy. Then 
she thought of her husband living in Petersburg, 
her stewards, doctors, neighbours, the officials of her 
acquaintance ... a long procession of familiar 
masculine faces passed before her imagination. She 
smiled and thought, if only these people could see 
into her heart and understand her, they would all 
be at her feet. 

At a quarter past eleven she called her maid. 

“Help me to dress, Dasha,” she said languidly. 
‘But go first and tell them to get out the horses. 
I must set off for Klavdia Nikolaevna’s.” 

Going out to get into the carriage, she blinked 
at the glaring daylight and laughed with pleasure: 
it was a wonderfully fine day! As she scanned from 
her half-closed eyes the monks who had gathered 
round the steps to see her off, she nodded graciously 
and said: 


The Princess 311 


“Good-bye, my friends! ‘Till the day after to- 
morrow.” 

It was an agreeable surprise to her that the doc- 
tor was with the monks by the steps. His face was 
pale and severe. 

‘“ Princess,’ he said with a guilty smile, taking 
off his hat, “ ve been waiting here a long time to 
see you. Forgive me, for God’s sake. . . . I was 
carried away yesterday by an evil, vindictive feeling 
and I talked . . . nonsense. In short, I beg your 
pardon.” 

The princess smiled graciously, and held out her 
hand for him to kiss. He kissed it, turning red. 

Trying to look like a bird, the princess fluttered 
into the carriage and nodded in all directions. 
There was a gay, warm, serene feeling in her heart, 
and she felt herself that her smile was particularly 
soft and friendly. As the carriage rolled towards 
the gates, and afterwards along the dusty road past 
huts and gardens, past long trains of waggons and 
strings of pilgrims on their way to the monastery, 
she still screwed up her eyes and smiled softly. She 
was thinking there was no higher bliss than to bring 
warmth, light, and joy wherever one went, to for- 
give injuries, to smile graciously on one’s enemies. 
The peasants she passed bowed to her, the carriage 
rustled softly, clouds of dust rose from under the 
wheels and floated over the golden rye, and it 
seemed to the princess that her body was swaying 
not on carriage cushions but on clouds, and that 


ge The Tales of Chekhov 


she herself was like a light, transparent little 
cloud. 2-2 

‘“How happy I am!” she murmured, shutting 
her eyes. ‘‘ How happy I am!” 


THE CHEMIST’S WIFE 





THE CHEMIST’S WIFE 


THE little town of B , consisting of two or three 
crooked streets, was sound asleep. There was a 
complete stillness in the motionless air. Nothing 
could be heard but far away, outside the town no 
doubt, the barking of a dog in a thin, hoarse tenor. 
It was close upon daybreak. 

Everything had long been asleep. The only per- 
son not asleep was the young wife of Tchernomor-- 
dik, a qualified dispenser who kept a chemist’s shop 
at B She had gone to bed and got up again 
three times, but could not sleep, she did not know 
why. She sat at the open window in her nightdress 
and looked into the street. She felt bored, de- 
pressed, vexed . . . so vexed that she felt quite in- 
clined to cry — again she did not know why. ‘There 
seemed to be a lump in her chest that kept rising into 
her throat. . . . A few paces behind her Tcherno- 
mordik lay curled up close to the wall, snoring 
sweetly. A greedy flea was stabbing the bridge of 
his nose, but he did not feel it, and was positively 
smiling, for he was dreaming that every one in the 
town had a cough, and was buying from him the 
King of Denmark’s cough-drops. He could not 
have been wakened now by pinpricks or by cannon or 
by caresses. 








315 


316 The Tales of Chekhov 


The chemist’s shop was almost at the extreme end 
of the town, so that the chemist’s wife could see far 
into the fields. She could see the eastern horizon 
growing pale by degrees, then turning crimson as 
though from a great fire. A big broad-faced moon 
peeped out unexpectedly from behind bushes in the 
distance. It was red (as a rule when the moon 
emerges from behind bushes it appears to be blush- 
ing). 

Suddenly in the stillness of the night there came 
the sounds of footsteps and a jingle of spurs. She 
could hear voices. 

‘“That must be the officers going home to the 
camp from the Police Captain’s,”’ thought the chem- 
ist’s wife. 

Soon afterwards two figures wearing officers’ 
white tunics came into sight: one big and tall, the 
other thinner and shorter. . . . They slouched 
along by the fence, dragging one leg after the other 
and talking loudly together. As they passed the 
chemist’s shop, they walked more slowly than ever, 
and glanced up at the windows. 

‘It smells like a chemist’s,” said the thin one. 
** And so it is! Ah, I remember. . . . I came here 
last week to buy some castor-oil. There’s a chemist 
here with a sour face and the jawbone of an ass! 
Such a jawbone, my dear fellow! It must have 
been a jawbone like that Samson killed the Phil- 
istines with.” 

‘* M’yes,” said the big one in a bass voice. ‘‘ ‘The 


The Chemist’s Wife 317 


pharmacist is asleep. And his wife is asleep too. 
She is a pretty woman, Obtyosoy.”’ 

ePisawoher “L liked ler ‘very mach.’.”.-. Fell 
me, doctor, can she possibly love that jawbone of an 
ass? Can she?” 

“No, most likely she does not love him,” sighed 
the doctor, speaking as though he were sorry for 
the chemist. ‘‘ The little woman is asleep behind 
the window, Obtyosov, what? ‘Tossing with the 
heat, her little mouth half open . . . and one little 
foot hanging out of bed. I bet that fool the chem- 
ist doesn’t realise what a lucky fellow he is... . 
No doubt he sees no difference between a woman 
and a bottle of carbolic!” 

‘“T say, doctor,”’ said the officer, stopping. ‘‘ Let 
us go into the shop and buy something. Perhaps 
we shall see her.” 

“What an idea — in the night! ” 

“What of it? They are obliged to serve one 
even at night. My dear fellow, let us go in! ” 

it vou like.’ $2” 

The chemist’s wife, hiding behind the curtain, 
heard a muffled ring. Looking round at her hus- 
band, who was smiling and snoring sweetly as be- 
fore, she threw on her dress, slid her bare feet into 
her slippers, and ran to the shop. 

On the other side of the glass door she could 
see two shadows. The chemist’s wife turned up 
the lamp and hurried to the door to open it, and 
now she felt neither vexed nor bored nor inclined 


318 The Tales of Chekhov 


to cry, though her heart was thumping. The big 
doctor and the slender Obtyosov walked in. Now 
she could get a view of them. The doctor was cor- 
pulent and swarthy; he wore a beard and was slow 
in his movements. At the slightest motion his tunic 
seemed as though it would crack, and perspiration 
came on to his face. The officer was rosy, clean- 
shaven, feminine-looking, and as supple as an Eng- 
lish whip. 

‘““ What may I give you?” asked the chemist’s 
wife, holding her dress across her bosom. 

“Give us... er-er . .. four pennyworth of 
peppermint lozenges! ” 

Without haste the chemist’s wife took down a 
jar from a shelf and began weighing out lozenges. 
The customers stared fixedly at her back; the doc- 
tor screwed up his eyes like a well-fed cat, while the 
lieutenant was very grave. 

“It's the first time ‘Live seenta Eee serving in a 
chemist’s shop,” observed the doctor. 

‘“‘ There’s nothing out of the way in it,” replied 
the chemist’s wife, looking out of the corner of her 
eye at the rosy-cheeked officer. ‘‘ My husband has 
no assistant, and I always help him.” 

‘Lo be ‘sure. . |.;;. You) have a charming, little 
shop! What a number of different ... jars! 
And you are not afraid of moving about among the 
poisons? Brrr!” 

The chemist’s wife sealed up the parcel and 
handed it to the doctor. Obtyosov gave her the 


The Chemist’s Wife 319 


money. Half a minute of silence followed... . 
The men exchanged glances, took a step towards the 
door, then looked at one another again. 

“Will you give me two pennyworth of soda?” 
said the doctor. 

Again the chemist’s wife slowly and languidly 
raised her hand to the shelf. 

‘“Haven’t you in the shop anything . . . such 


as .’ muttered Obtyosov, moving his fingers, 
“something, so to say, allegorical . . . revivify- 
ing . . . seltzer-water, for instance. ate you 


any seltzer-water?”’ 

‘““ Yes,’’ answered the chemist’s wife. 

‘Bravo! You're a fairy, not a woman! Give 
us three bottles! ” 

The chemist’s wife hurriedly sealed up the soda 
and vanished through the door into the darkness. 

-o* peach!’ i said ‘the doctor, with’ a wink: 
“You wouldn’t find a pineapple like that in the is- 
land of Madeira! Eh? What do you say? Do 
you hear the snoring, though? ‘That’s his worship 
the chemist enjoying sweet repose.” 

A minute later the chemist’s wife came back and 
set five bottles on the counter. She had just been 
in the cellar, and so was flushed and rather excited. 


‘“Sh-sh! . . . quietly!’”’ said Obtyosov when, 
after Racorane. the bottles, she dropped the cork- 
screw. ‘ Don’t make such a noise; you'll wake your 
husband.” 


“Well, what if I do wake him?” 


320 The Tales of Chekhov 


‘“He is sleeping so sweetly ... he must be 
dreaming of you. . . . To your health!” 

‘‘ Besides,” boomed the doctor, hiccupping after 
the seltzer-water, ‘‘ husbands are such a dull business 
that it would be very nice of them to be always 
asleep. How good a drop of red wine would be in 
this water! ”’ 

‘What an idea!” laughed the chemist’s wife. 

“That would be splendid. What a pity they 
don’t sell spirits in chemist’s shops! Though you 
ought to sell wine as a medicine. Have you any 
vinum gallicum rubrum? 

Hees. 

‘Well, then, give us some! Bring it here, damn 
rie A 

‘How much do you want?” 

“ Quantum satis. . . . Give us an ounce each in 
the water, and afterwards we'll see. . . . Obtyosov, 
what do you say? First with water and afterwards 
DER SGbce es os: 

The doctor and Obtyosov sat down to the coun- 
ter, took off their caps, and began drinking the wine. 

“The wine, one must admit, is wretched stuff! 
Vinum nastissimum! Though in the presence of 
ds Wes OF yeni?) os 1t,.tastes like: nectar. oy om ahesene 
chanting, madam! In imagination I kiss your 
hand.” 

“IT would give a great deal to do so not in im- 
agination,”’ said Obtyosov. ‘‘On my honour, I’d 
give my life.” 


The Chemist’s Wife Bey! 


“'That’s enough,” said Madame Tchernomordik, 
flushing and assuming a serious expression. 

“What a flirt you are, though!” the doctor 
laughed softly, looking slyly at her from under his 
brows. ‘‘ Your eyes seem to be firing shot: piff-paff! 
I congratulate you: you've conquered! We are 
vanquished! ”’ 

The chemist’s wife looked at their ruddy faces, 
listened to their chatter, and soon she, too, grew 
quite lively. Oh, she felt so gay! She entered into 
the conversation, she laughed, flirted, and even, 
after repeated requests from the customers, drank 
two ounces of wine. 

‘You officers ought to come in oftener from the 
camp,” she said; “‘ it’s awful how dreary it is here. 
I’m simply dying of it.” 

‘“‘T should think so!”’ said the doctor indignantly. 
“‘ Such a peach, a miracle of nature, thrown away 
in the wilds! How well Griboyedov said, ‘ Into 
the wilds, to Saratov’! It’s time for us to be 
off, though. Delighted to have made your ac- 
quaintance . . . very. How much do we owe 
you?” 

The chemist’s wife raised her eyes to the ceiling 
and her lips moved for some time. 

‘Twelve roubles forty-eight kopecks,” she said. 

Obtyosov took out of his pocket a fat pocket- 
book, and after fumbling for some time among the 
notes, paid. 

“Your husband’s sleeping sweetly . . . he must 


300 The Tales of Chekhov 


be dreaming,” he muttered, pressing her hand at 
parting. 

‘“T don’t like to hear silly remarks... . 

‘What silly remarks? On the contrary, it’s not 
silly at all . . . even Shakespeare said: ‘ Happy 
is he who in his youth is young.’ ” 

“Let go of my hand.” 

At last after much talk and after kissing the lady’s 
hand at parting, the customers went out of the shop 
irresolutely, as though they were wondering whether 
they had not forgotten something. 

She ran quickly into the bedroom and sat down 
in the same place. She saw the doctor and the off- 
cer, on coming out of the shop, walk lazily away a 
distance of twenty paces; then they stopped and be- 
gan whispering together. What about? Her heart 
throbbed, there was a pulsing in her temples, and 
why she did not know. . . . Her heart beat vio- 
lently as though those two whispering outside were 
deciding her fate. 

Five minutes later the doctor parted from Obtyo- 
sov and walked on, while Obtyosov came back. He 
walked past the shop once and a second time. . . 
He would stop near the door and then take a few 
steps again. At last the bell tinkled discreetly. 

‘“What? Who is there?’ the chemist’s wife 
heard her husband’s voice suddenly. ‘“ There’s a 
ring at the bell, and you don’t hear it,’’ he said se- 
verely. ‘Is that the way to do things?” 

He got up, put on his dressing-gown, and stagger- 


” 


The Chemist’s Wife o23 


ing, half asleep, flopped in his slippers to the shop. 

“What ... is it?” he asked Obtyosov. 

‘““Give me . . . give me four pennyworth of pep- 
permint lozenges.” 

Sniffing continually, yawning, dropping asleep as 
he moved, and knocking his knees against the coun- 
ter, the chemist went to the shelf and reached down 
the jar. 

Two minutes later the chemist’s wife saw Obtyo- 
sov go out of the shop, and, after he had gone some 
steps, she saw him throw the packet of peppermints 
on the dusty road. The doctor came from behind 
a corner to meet him. . . . They met and, gesticu- 
lating, vanished in the morning mist. 

“How unhappy I am!”’ said the chemist’s wife, 
looking angrily at her husband, who was undressing 
quickly to get into bed again. ‘‘ Oh, how unhappy 
I am!” she repeated, suddenly melting into bitter 
tears. ‘“ And nobody knows, nobody knows. . . .” 

“I forgot fourpence on the counter,’”’ muttered 
the chemist, pulling the quilt over him. ‘“‘ Put it 
away in the till, please. . . .” 

And at once he fell asleep again. 


THE END 

















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